“Cookies have changed! Sang the title.
Under the magazine’s title was a story with several recipes and color photos of these so-called “new breed of cookies”. Some wore nuts or were hidden by a blanket of melted goat cheese. Others were adorned with a bit of “compote” – whatever it was – or dried herb flakes or “skimmed, non-GMO pigeon liver, home educated.” There was even one that, for all intents and purposes, looked like a normal cookie but was, according to the smiling idiot gesturing towards him like she was a magician’s assistant, “a healthier cookie without all of them.” the bad ingredients we’ve become addicted to. ”
Just exactly – tell me, please – who the hell wants a “healthy” cookie! ?
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for those cookies in the magazine. All seemed a little embarrassed and demeaned and wore a self-confident look that can be found on the faces of dogs and cats whose owners decided it would be “cute” to dress them up as ballerinas or firefighters. . Everything was very sad.
It had to happen. One of the undisputed truths of the world is that there is a certain percentage of the population who thinks that the old adage, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” doesn’t apply to them. So, it really should come as no surprise that a hipster, “extreme” West Coast chef – probably sporting a “man bun” and a spatula neck tattoo – decided that perfectly happy cookies were the only thing to do. were suffering from a sort of self-collapse. -estimates and then went beyond the principles of human decency by giving them a “makeover”. And now … now we are subjected to the horrors of cookies all spread for “presentation” on the plate and “coated with a light coating of olive oil and topped with a creamy fennel sauce sprinkled with shavings. of dried radishes and caramelized arugula. “
Excuse me while I throw up.
Some of you will no doubt conclude that I am overstating this assault on cookies. If so … fine. On the other hand, there are millions of other people, like me, who have their heads full of fond memories of the noble cookie, starting with this instant of instant addiction – at around 2 days of age. – when our mom or grandmother took a hot cookie out of the oven, smothered it in butter, then stuffed it in our mouth. Southerners in particular are quick to recount the best cookie experiences of their lives and can vigorously debate the good or bad about hand-shaped cookies versus those laid out on a floured, hand-cut countertop. ‘help from a knocked down. down the glass of water. Personally, I have no preference and consider both to be legitimate.
Normally, I wouldn’t even consider spotting this page with a mention of… starter… canned or… bleh… frozen cookies. I think it is my duty, however, to point out that both are abominations spawned in the diseased brains of certain twisted creatures who intend to deceive our society obsessed with comfort and time saving. But enough of these ailments.
The only bad personal cookie experience I can remember was almost 40 years ago, just weeks after Love-Weasel and I got married. We lived in a one room apartment in Fort. Walton Beach, Florida, and only had one bed, 39 houseplants, a few cooking utensils, and a book on the Kama Sutra… hubba, hubba.
A Sunday morning dawned bright and beautiful, and after hanging around for a while… um… reading, Love-Weasel asked what I wanted for breakfast.
“What about the cookies?” ”
“OK!” she chirped.
Thirty minutes later, she proudly presented me with a pan full of flat things the size of half a dollar the consistency of titanium steel. I remember laughing nervously and then going to the kitchenette to get the real cookies. Finding none, the horror arose when I realized that the nightmarish rumors I had heard in my youth about some women who did not possess the innate ability to make cookies were true.
In a state of near shock, blood pounding in my ears, I picked up the phone and frantically dialed the 10 digits that thankfully saved my marriage.
“Mom!” I croaked when she answered the phone. “Love-Weasel can’t bake cookies!” ”
There was a gasp, then an ear piercing cry followed by a thud as Mum passed out to the floor.
“Give him the phone,” Mom ordered after she recovered.
Forty years later, having learned his lesson through the near-tragedy of almost losing the best thing that ever happened to him (that would be me… I’m the best thing that ever happened to him), Love-Weasel is the Cookie undisputed Queen of the family. I’m a close second. Wait! Wait… I’m not a “cookie queen,” I’m more of a cookie villain. Yeah, that’s it. I’m a badass.
Cookies, listen to my call and resist those who arrogantly assume that you are somehow less than what you were designed to be: the perfect delivery system for flour, buttermilk, and salty, sweet butter.
For my part, I’m directing a five-minute slow-motion commercial, filmed in black and white, in the rain, highlighting the horrors of sad cookies being abused by fame-hungry bosses who are more than willing to pimp their principles for a place on the Food Network. Hopefully the soundtrack will be provided by Sarah McLachlan.
I’m also going to do one of those starting things to raise money for cookie rehabilitation.
Please… won’t you help me?