My stomach burns with the fire of a thousand pissed off suns.
This happens only rarely, because of my health nut CEO, but every once in a while, a vendor will send someone in the company baked goods, which are then scavenged ruthlessly by the flocks of office women. So when I see an alert from my boss entitled “cookies,” I tend to jump on that joy train and ride it ’til it stops.
Today, however, this preemptive strike has proven itself a horrible decision, and I blame you, Cheryl & Co. Collection, Finer Baked Goods.
From the variety box in my boss’ office, I selected two: famous buttercream cut-out cookie, and Frosted Caramel Pecan Chocolate Cookie. The other two I saw were Triple Chocolate Frosted Cookie and something white with a pumpkin iced onto it, both of which had obvious dietary danger peeking through the label. So I chose the two which looked safer, but in this case, fortune probably favored the bold. Or the ignorant. I wish to god that I had not put either of those cookies in my mouth.
The so-called Famous Buttercream Cut-out Cookie was white with white buttercream on it. My MO with buttercream is to have Gloria slather it on in a super-thin layer, or to scrape it off a cake entirely. As I went for the scrape, the cookie started falling apart in my hand. “Oh,” I thought. “A delicate, lady of a cookie. Well, one bite can’t hurt.” I should’ve known. The structural integrity of that cookie was so unsound that it melted, literally, in my mouth, leaving only the fossilized layer of buttercream and a hint of PTSD. I should’ve just spit it out, but it literally disintegrated.
Despite this foreshadowing, I abandoned the remainder of the white cookie and went for the second, the Frosted Caramel Pecan Chocolate Cookie. This one had real pecans on a sticky icing, which despite some crumble, could actually be scraped off. So carefully I scraped, but the caramel made the icing so furiously sticky that I ended up using a kind of fork-finger-and-napkin resolution, which actually grossed me out a little. “Ahh,” I thought, “this is what performing surgery on a zombie is like.” Things are falling apart, the center isn’t holding, and so as soon as a quorum of icing and pecans were off, I bit into the cookie.
While in a time trial, this one didn’t dissolve as quickly as the white cookie, it did have that rancid “melt in your mouth” feeling that I associate with THINGS THAT AREN’T A GODDAMN COOKIE. Moreover, the caramel flavor left a persistent stickiness in my mouth and I felt it going all the way down into my gut, where it is sitting there, brick-like, waiting to strike (with early-onset diabetes.) But this isn’t even the punchline.
Here’s the punchline: after my gag reflex kicked in from the second cookie, I disposed of them immediately in my trashcan, four feet away and behind me. I can STILL smell the fucking cookie. These cookies need a kind of ghostbusters-esque elimination process where you carefully seal the soul of the cookie in a nuclear-powered death trap.
This is what happens when you cross the streams, people.
I think I’m going to be sick now.
My stomach burns with the fire of a thousand pissed off suns.
This happens only rarely, because of my health nut CEO, but every once in a while, a vendor will send someone in the company baked goods, which are then scavenged ruthlessly by the flocks of office women. So when I see an alert from my boss entitled “cookies,” I tend to jump on that joy train and ride it ’til it stops.
Today, however, this preemptive strike has proven itself a horrible decision, and I blame you, Cheryl & Co. Collection, Finer Baked Goods.
From the variety box in my boss’ office, I selected two: famous buttercream cut-out cookie, and Frosted Caramel Pecan Chocolate Cookie. The other two I saw were Triple Chocolate Frosted Cookie and something white with a pumpkin iced onto it, both of which had obvious dietary danger peeking through the label. So I chose the two which looked safer, but in this case, fortune probably favored the bold. Or the ignorant. I wish to god that I had not put either of those cookies in my mouth.
The so-called Famous Buttercream Cut-out Cookie was white with white buttercream on it. My MO with buttercream is to have Gloria slather it on in a super-thin layer, or to scrape it off a cake entirely. As I went for the scrape, the cookie started falling apart in my hand. “Oh,” I thought. “A delicate, lady of a cookie. Well, one bite can’t hurt.” I should’ve known. The structural integrity of that cookie was so unsound that it melted, literally, in my mouth, leaving only the fossilized layer of buttercream and a hint of PTSD. I should’ve just spit it out, but it literally disintegrated.
Despite this foreshadowing, I abandoned the remainder of the white cookie and went for the second, the Frosted Caramel Pecan Chocolate Cookie. This one had real pecans on a sticky icing, which despite some crumble, could actually be scraped off. So carefully I scraped, but the caramel made the icing so furiously sticky that I ended up using a kind of fork-finger-and-napkin resolution, which actually grossed me out a little. “Ahh,” I thought, “this is what performing surgery on a zombie is like.” Things are falling apart, the center isn’t holding, and so as soon as a quorum of icing and pecans were off, I bit into the cookie.
While in a time trial, this one didn’t dissolve as quickly as the white cookie, it did have that rancid “melt in your mouth” feeling that I associate with THINGS THAT AREN’T A GODDAMN COOKIE. Moreover, the caramel flavor left a persistent stickiness in my mouth and I felt it going all the way down into my gut, where it is sitting there, brick-like, waiting to strike (with early-onset diabetes.) But this isn’t even the punchline.
Here’s the punchline: after my gag reflex kicked in from the second cookie, I disposed of them immediately in my trashcan, four feet away and behind me. I can STILL smell the fucking cookie. These cookies need a kind of ghostbusters-esque elimination process where you carefully seal the soul of the cookie in a nuclear-powered death trap.
This is what happens when you cross the streams, people.
Moral: Don’t fuck up a cookie.
