Moose in the Kitchen

I made molasses spice cookies last night. There are people who need cookies, and these people can’t be ignored. Due to a certain recent incident, where a certain someone didn’t get any cookies, it has been alleged that I eat more than my fair share of treats. This is a blatant lie. Besides, if it takes a certain unnamed faction a whole 24 hours to make its way to the cookie jar, you deserve to find it empty. That said, I am more than happy to bribe my way into the hearts of friends, payer of the bills, and dog by baking cookies. And eating no more than half. Well, three quarters. This startling lack of self control is why I need three sticks of butter.

Yes, I Did Use Essence of Rabbit In Your Cookies, and No You Don’t Want to Know What Essence of Rabbit Is

Please note the crisp shadow cast by the egg. The fact that you can read the label on the molasses bottle. The notable lack of queasiness you feel when gazing at the contents of my cupboard. Deduction: this photograph was not taken by me. Me, the me whose photography has, on several notable occasions, actually made people seasick.

This Photo Wasn’t Taken By Me Either. Because I’m a Dirty Cheater.

Hey, Schnozz. Remember how I made you grind that pepper over a piece of paper and then shovel it into a teaspoon? Remember how annoying that was? Yeah. Well, you didn’t need to do that. Turns out we had ground pepper all along. There are two options here: 1. I can’t find the leg attached to my hip, or 2. I like torturing guests. You decide.

Observe the Dexterity with Which I Both Pour the Molasses and Take the Photograph at the Same Time

This picture was taken two minutes after I noticed strange dark lumps in the dough. Decide they’re unlikely to be mouse droppings, so adopt hardbitten “I’ve stamped on plague-infested rats with my bare feet then stabbed the bastards with a rusty nail and grilled them into tasty, well-seasoned shish kebabs so, damnit, I can eat mouse droppings” stance and ignore them. Later decide I’m not that badass and fish them out.

Please Note How Gracefully the Tablespoon Hovers Over the Bowl

The spoon is learning levitation from yogi masters. The spoon is getting rather insufferable about it. To which I reply: you can’t be enlightened. You’re a spoon. Now shovel some dough into my mouth, bitch.

Clay Lumps: My Lovely Lovely Lumps, My Bumpy Clumpy Mumps

We will skim right over the part where we discuss what these lumps actually resemble and move straight to the pay off.

It Smells Like Christmas. It Tastes Like Indigestion.

But, oh, what a pleasant way to feel ill.

Ignore Lack of Seque Here

At midnight, Cinderella reverts from a Manolo-wearing socialite to the B- student in keds. The Lamborghini turns back into a ‘76 Chevy Nova. Would that I were so lucky. I can’t even manage the ‘76 Chevy. Instead, I turn into a flaming imbecile. Yes, it seems that at midnight my brain shuts down. If I still need it, too bad. It’s got a sleeping mask and a sound machine and ain’t nothing going to wake it up.

I forgot my address. Yes, I did. As I was wrapping the packages of cookies, I realized that I couldn’t remember exactly which house I live in. The numbers just weren’t coming. So I merrily wrote a different return address on each package. I’m still not entirely sure where I live.