Fewer than five dozen
It was a night of failed cookies. Probably didn't beat the eggs hard enough. Eggwhites are what peaks things, right? Like, airbubbles and what-have-you? Well, the cookies were too spread. Probably would have been okay for cookie-bars, but nobody really likes cookie-bars, probably.
It didn't really matter, anyways... she had gotten bored and wandered off before the completion of the next-to-final batch. Perhaps not just bored, though, as he had been kind of overbearing and tried to tell her how to dollop the spoonful of cookie-dough onto the sheet, and she had kind of said "well, why don't you just do it" and he acknowledged that he couldn't do any better of a job, that the eggwhite should have helped things peak (he thought) and that the mangled cookie-hunks that had been scraped from the first few batches were, generally, up to snuff in terms of taste, at least, if not so much aesthetics, which really was not his thing, anyways.
She also mentioned, after what seemed (to him anyways) like just a couple nibbles that she was tired of cookies, which kind of was like just telling a dude that your tired and whatnot, let it be done with, whatever.
But that wasn't it, just that, either. Also, why couldn't he at least smell the cookies? That had been his main source of inspiration behind this, anyways, to get the aparment all oven-warmed and cookie-smelling. He knew that baking cookies emitted a scent. He thought that he remembered candles (possibly available at the mall) that were cookie-scented. He knew he'd smell cookies (or whatever he was baking, for that matter) back when he lived with his parents. Did aparments have smell-acoustics? He considered that often he only recognized the smell of what had been cooked earlier in the apartment when entering from outdoors.
Maybe that was it. He hadn't left the house all day. She had, but he hadn't. She didn't smell the cookies, either, but she had allergies. He maybe should try to at least leave the house once a day. Even Sundays.
But that's just it, he hadn't left the house until about 5:00 the night before, and that had made him kind of anxious because it there were a lot of people in town, people he had seen flowing into town on the walk home from work on Friday, and they were all gonna be wasted and there was nothing like walking sober amongst the wasted.
Of coure, after he had left the house that one time the day before, and mingled with those he had so feared, he wound up no longer sober indeed, and much more non-sober than he really intended to get, but he wasn't really suprised, given the circumstances.
And he had felt all right the next morning, pretty good in fact. Especially knowing the clocks all fell back, and he had an extra hour, like someone who knew how to cheat at cards, let alone play them. Why the hell did he actually own a cribbage board, anyways? Every time he played he was too fucked to remember the rules for the next time. In fact, most games were like that. He was doing more reading than game-playing, though he thought that maybe his choice of authors and texts and such to be questionable in in-the-know cirles, probably. Some in fact picked as randomly as a dart thrown at a dart board from a list posted by someone (he didn't know at all) who denounced another list as being picked as randomly as darts thrown blindly. Which just so happened to be the only way he knew how to throw darts.
At any rate, he figured he might as well scrape the cookie-chunks and the few actual, genuine cookies that made it throught the ordeal into a tupperware box and cross his fingers that, when he got home from work the next day, the apartment might offer some comfort in some way.
This Heat - Sleep (mp3)
It didn't really matter, anyways... she had gotten bored and wandered off before the completion of the next-to-final batch. Perhaps not just bored, though, as he had been kind of overbearing and tried to tell her how to dollop the spoonful of cookie-dough onto the sheet, and she had kind of said "well, why don't you just do it" and he acknowledged that he couldn't do any better of a job, that the eggwhite should have helped things peak (he thought) and that the mangled cookie-hunks that had been scraped from the first few batches were, generally, up to snuff in terms of taste, at least, if not so much aesthetics, which really was not his thing, anyways.
She also mentioned, after what seemed (to him anyways) like just a couple nibbles that she was tired of cookies, which kind of was like just telling a dude that your tired and whatnot, let it be done with, whatever.
But that wasn't it, just that, either. Also, why couldn't he at least smell the cookies? That had been his main source of inspiration behind this, anyways, to get the aparment all oven-warmed and cookie-smelling. He knew that baking cookies emitted a scent. He thought that he remembered candles (possibly available at the mall) that were cookie-scented. He knew he'd smell cookies (or whatever he was baking, for that matter) back when he lived with his parents. Did aparments have smell-acoustics? He considered that often he only recognized the smell of what had been cooked earlier in the apartment when entering from outdoors.
Maybe that was it. He hadn't left the house all day. She had, but he hadn't. She didn't smell the cookies, either, but she had allergies. He maybe should try to at least leave the house once a day. Even Sundays.
But that's just it, he hadn't left the house until about 5:00 the night before, and that had made him kind of anxious because it there were a lot of people in town, people he had seen flowing into town on the walk home from work on Friday, and they were all gonna be wasted and there was nothing like walking sober amongst the wasted.
Of coure, after he had left the house that one time the day before, and mingled with those he had so feared, he wound up no longer sober indeed, and much more non-sober than he really intended to get, but he wasn't really suprised, given the circumstances.
And he had felt all right the next morning, pretty good in fact. Especially knowing the clocks all fell back, and he had an extra hour, like someone who knew how to cheat at cards, let alone play them. Why the hell did he actually own a cribbage board, anyways? Every time he played he was too fucked to remember the rules for the next time. In fact, most games were like that. He was doing more reading than game-playing, though he thought that maybe his choice of authors and texts and such to be questionable in in-the-know cirles, probably. Some in fact picked as randomly as a dart thrown at a dart board from a list posted by someone (he didn't know at all) who denounced another list as being picked as randomly as darts thrown blindly. Which just so happened to be the only way he knew how to throw darts.
At any rate, he figured he might as well scrape the cookie-chunks and the few actual, genuine cookies that made it throught the ordeal into a tupperware box and cross his fingers that, when he got home from work the next day, the apartment might offer some comfort in some way.
This Heat - Sleep (mp3)
posted by Quincy Hoist at 7:18 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home