Cookie monster

My friend Ros did me a solid a couple of months ago, so I decided to send her a few dozen chocolate chip cookies. Which meant I had to bake them first.

Why so long, you ask? I only wheedled her snailmail address out of her last week.

& I went into a Force 8 anxiety attack.

Because I don’t think I’ve baked cookies for…well, I must have still been on the East Coast, so it’s some time ago. I wasn’t even sure I knew where my mixer is stored. (Under the stairs, as it turned out, behind some suitcases. Of course.)

I was so freaked out that I went through the recipe about six times, lined up all the measured ingredients like a Food Network automaton (not one of the "eyeball it" ones) & rehearsed all the steps while the butter was thawing.

(Note to self: if you’re going to try to catch up on social media while breaking pecans, at least put the bowl some distance from your laptop, because it turns out that pecan crumbs are just as hard to get out of the keyboard as toast crumbs.)

I also had to remember to take all the pans out of my oven before turning it on, because that’s where I store them. 1) I never use the oven; 2) I almost never use the pans. It's been so long since I used my secondary digital timer, I'd forgot how to set it.

That’s why I’m worried about these damned cookies. I mean—I’ve been baking them since I was in grade school; but…

I’m hoping this baking thing is like riding a bicycle.

Except I haven’t done that since I left the East Coast, either.

Um.