I do have a happy note for y'all, but it requires your imaginations. First, you have to think of me, this great big baldish guy with a huge belly. (Here's a shot in case you can't remember) Now you need to see me in my kitchen in the corner where the mixer is. ( Here's a shot in case you can't remember.) Then you need to imagine me without a shirt on. (Here's the best I can do for a shot and still keep my modesty intact)
got that vision? I was making a half sheet of brownies. A half sheet
pan is quite large; the recipe takes a cup of cocoa, 2 cups of flour,
seven eggs and 3/4 pound of butter among other things. I was mixin it
all up in my lovely Kitchen Aid mixer and had decided that it was time
to stop, as one doesn't want to overbeat baked goods you know. Just
previous to making this decision I was joking with my lovely wife (who
was busy making the frosting for our lovely brownies) what a crappy baker
I was. In fact I told her about a time when I was working at the deli
this very recipe came from, and I was making some sort of cookies, and I'd
forgotten entirely to add the sugar to a batter making about 6 dozen
cookies. Luckily, as I'm a pig I'd tasted my wares when the first sheet
came out of the oven and was able to correct my mistake before ruining
30 bucks worth of ingredients.
Well ok, nevermind that. So now
you're looking at a great big half naked fat guy, standing over a mixer
full of chocolate goo, when he begins to lift the beater out of the bowl
in order to centrifugally remove most of the batter from the paddle,
when suddenly he suffers a severe brain fart and forgets in exactly
which direction one wants to push the mixing speed bar in order to slow
it down a notch. Then, as you might expect, the mixer speeds up and
begins to fling tiny globules of chocolate egg glop into the air
surrounding the mixing bowl. So what does our hero do? He freaks,
panics, and in his zeal to turn OFF the mixer he shoves the bar to the
fully ON position, flinging giant sized globules of what amounts to
chocolate baby poop onto the chest of said hero, and the stove and the
sink, and the floor where little Dusty the Dog is thanking his lucky
stars, just moments before our hero starts screaming vulgarities in a
strange and foreign tongue.
Just. Shoot. Me.
Or, stop by for a brownie. They're delicious. And I've almost got all the batter out of my chest hair!