After weeks of eating
completely healthy 100% of the timemostly healthy 85% of the time, something was bound to give. I had turned myself into a regular Betty Crocker in months previous, after all, so a stick of pure butter, several cups of sugar, and a couple of egg yolks were bound to find their own way into a bowl, mix themselves together, fload their way into the oven and bake themselves into cookies. And wouldn’t it be rude if I didn’t eat them all after they went to so much trouble? I think it would be terribly ungrateful of me not to eat them all.
Ok, so no magic cookies, but after reading this, I felt compelled by the power of Jesus to whip up a batch of my World’s Greatest Chocolate Chip Cookies. By the way, how much do you have to change a recipe before you can officially call them your own? ‘Cause I’ve done quite a bit of tweaking to this recipe and I feel rightful in calling them “my” cookies. Especially when they are so darn delicious and irresistable. Just ask Carly’s husband.
Carly called them Devil Cookies, which I completely disagree with. Not only are they not Devil Cookies, but I think they were sent down by a higher power, in a gift basket, with a card signed “Enjoy – G.” I’m just saying…they are that good. In fact, I’ll be right back…
In an attempt to escape doing puzzles for the entire morning on Saturday, Eirinn and I decided to make these together. It went much better than I expected. Nothing “accidentally” broke. “No one” had a fit. And I think she enjoyed herself. Mostly she watched me while asking “You need this?” of every measuring spoon, mixing utensil, and ingredient. She helped me pour in the chocolate chips, receiving a handful of chips as a reward.
See? This is what she was driven to do while we waited. Soccer in oven mitts. Not an act of a sane person. Is anyone else mesmerized by the Doras on her pants? They are hypnotizing me into eating more cookies…