Last week some time I got it into my head that I should send sugar cookies to my boyfriend, decorated all pretty for Valentine's Day. I thought if I sent them out by yesterday (Wednesday, February 3), they might actually get there on time. Note: might.
So, Tuesday night, Lindsay came over and we baked cookies. I figured I could send Mike about two dozen for him and some of his buddies and keep a dozen for myself. Lindsay made hers primarily for her husband, which only makes sense.
We mixed in the ingredients, stuck in the fridge, popped them on a cookie sheet and voila, beautiful cookies.
At least, that's how hers turned out.
Mine spread across the cookie sheet, making one huge uneatable cookie. Literally uneatable. They were still sticky and hot and I'm pretty sure they were mocking me. Never have I been so humiliated in cooking. Never has such a thing happened to me before.
Lindsay gave me the rest of her cookie dough, once she felt she'd made a sufficient number of cookies. The 11 I made from her batch turned out perfectly. What the heck?
We have no idea what happened. The only difference I can recall is hers were in a glass bowl and mine in a plastic.
So, this morning, I'm trying again. He'd better be grateful.