So the other day, the maniversary of two of my friends and the first anniversary of the beginning of the best year of my life to date, I was making cookies with three good friends. I love to bake (no duh) and they like to eat, and they wanted to learn how to bake so they could eat their own confections. So I brought over Dorie Greenspan’s Baking: From my home to yours and we made chocolate malted whopper drops. I’d give you the recipe but I’m not quite ready to relinquish it yet (we had to do with less eggs and other things, so I’m going to make them again so I can tweak them to my heart’s content.) Meanwhile, these are B’s thoughts on the matter:
Sweet Ixcacao! I just started eating those cookies. And I ate too many and I am going to die. I am literally going to die! I am super legitamately going to experience death by chocolate. My heart just went into cardiovascular shock on account of how delicious these cookies are and my body is literally being consumed and falling into a warm deadly chocolately coma. When I wake up my gun will be rusted, my wife will be dead and I will a footlong beard. That’s assuming I do wake up and don’t choose to merely spend eternity in a sweet sweet chocolate limbo wonderland free of my bodily limitations where I can consume thine dark lips of the goddess that lives inside these cookies and never feel pain nor hardship nor guilt ever again.
Maybe I don’t need to tweak them at all.