James Attempts an “Easy” Roast

Last weekend, I went to visit my parents who live in Kingston. As soon as I walked through the door and collapsed on my mothers bed,  she decided it would be an opportune time to each me how to cook what she refers to as an “Easy Roast.”

I was not particularly interested in cooking on this particular day, for particular reasons. Fortunately, what she showed me how to cook was simple. In fact, I am cooking it at my own home as I am type this up. This is the way she instructed me to cook it.

First, I took a big piece of meat, and generously applied garlic, and rubbed it thoroughly on either side of the roast. I would’ve added some other seasoning of my own, but I stuck with garlic for now. My mother was very impressed that I knew how to break up and mince garlic, even though I didn’t need to mince it for the roast. I neglected to tell her I had read about it while cooking Italian breaded pork chops the night before, and acted like it was one of the many little things I’ve acquired this quarter, when in fact it may be one of five things I’ve actually learned.  

I then plopped it into a deep pan and  seared the steak as one normally would while pan frying. I put some onion soup mix, which is produced by Lipton, who I had assumed only made tea up to this point, on top of the roast. Then I poured a significant amount of Pepsi/Coke into the pan, to about the height of the meat. I do not know what this technique is called, but I do know that the acids in cola, which can cause a rusty pipe to actually deteriorate when poured down it, acts as a meth-like tenderizer on the meat. Then I turned over the piece of meat every 30 minutes or so, for about two and a half hours, refilling the pan with Pepsi/Coke as it descended during the cooking. I even took a nap at one point while cooking. I tossed some canned potatoes and canned carrots in, something I’d likely never do at home. And that’s about it. Cook it until you’re sick of getting up every so often. Or until you get hungry.

Here’s the thing. Since the beginning of this contract, I’ve drilled it into my head, through external and internal influences, that cooking is something that takes knowledge and true ability to do, not just drive and gusto. I’ve believed that good meals are exclusively filled with complicated directions, sophisticated and foreign techniques and a list of ingredients longer than the original manuscript for On The Road (And I make that reference while never have enjoyed reading Kerouac. I’ll expound on this later.) Basically, I have misinformed myself. My ADD convinced me that cooking is something that kids who grew up playing videogames, smoking pot and reading Dave Eggers would never quite get together – kind of like their lives. The things I’ve used to identify myself with never typically involved sentences like “Grown men don’t…” or “You’ll thank me when you’re older…”  because I never imagined myself getting older. Which I really haven’t yet, but nonetheless I am at the age where I can still change my habits without embarassing growing pains and some future significant other laughing on the inside when I admit I can’t cook something as simple as pasta. Because who wants that, except for the respected people who have a stake in the financial interest in Totinos Party Pizza’s? Motherfuckers have the ORIGINAL Crisp Crust!

Tony's

 

Basically I thought that the more complicated something is, the better is. This is very untrue. To quote my homeboy Thoreau “Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity.” The best things in life are simple. Imagine anything in life you enjoy that is relatively simple. Now make it really complicated? Any better. No. It’s not. So stop imagining, you look ridiculous.

ANYWAY, this roast ended up being extremely tender, not dry as I wrongly imagined (this was before I discovered Cokes acidic qualities,) and filled with a robust taste. Sometimes the simplest recipes, built on a foundation of solid ingredients, can create the best meal. It doesn’t need a French name, and a mature cooking method. That is done only in order to impress myself and to convince myself I am a sophisticated and mature cook. Which I am obviously not, because I can’t imagine one complicated or exotic cooking method. Besides braising. But I haven’t learned anything additionally about that besides it’s name, because I’m stuck on how bad-ass the name sounds. A final note: I think this romanticized version of cooking I’ve described, if it is in fact real, is a lot like The Beats writing movement. Overwrought, senselessly excessive and masturbatory- it’s enjoyed solely by the person creating it. The lesson learned:  Good food is simply good food. And my goal is to be a good competent cook, not some fancy sophisticated cook. At least not yet.

P.S. I just burned the Coke because I was working out a sentence, and not because I am kind of drunk. You don’t even want to imagine what burned Coke smells like. It’s like the smell of vomit at a carnival on the Tilt-A-Whirl, but combined with a swampy brackish smell and also combined with burnt enamel at the dentist. Hope you’re hungry!

James Attempts to Bake Cookies

There’s this bag of chocolate chips that have been sitting idle in the cabinet. I bought them on a whim, when I was at the grocery store with my  girlfriend, assuming that this purchase would compel me to bake more, or at least bake more treats containing chocolate chips.

Obviously, that didn’t happen. They’ve been sitting there, looking extremely depressed, folded over and gradually going bad, if chocolate chips can even go bad. They’ve been exposed since November when I was stoned and began to eat large handfuls of chocolate chips in a fit of desperate hunger. It was moments like this that compelled me to do this contract.

I rifled through my kitchen making sure I had everything I would need before I got started. This is what professional cooking-type people do. I discover that I don’t have any brown sugar. Or at least any sort of usable brown sugar. The brown sugar I had was as hard as cement (more on this later,) and was in a partially torn bag from the last time I made cookies (six months ago,) and left open from when I considered using it during the bottling of the I.P.A. (more on brewing in the previous post.) Not that leaving the bag partially open or the box leading to the bag open is the cause of rock-hard brown sugar. But like I said, more on my inexperience later.

I go to the convenience store two minutes from my place, and am prepared to buy the new brown sugar, which is actually golden brown sugar, and the spot on the counter next to the golden brown sugar was vacant, which led me to believe that this may have been the location of the “real” or “realer” brown sugar, when in fact it was a spot for sugar cubes (!?!?!) but I soon discover that golden brown sugar is actually the same as brown sugar. And this wasn’t due to my intuition. It just said so on the back of the box. I quote from the ripped up cardboard box with egg yolk on it that I just pawed from the trash:

“C&H Golden Brown Sugar is brown sugar all the way through. You might not know that not all brown sugars are alike. Unlike some brands, C&H Golden Brown Sugar is always 100% pure cane sugar and is always naturally brown all the way through and through.”

Something about this makes me feel uneasy. Maybe the eerie fact that the box reassures my elemantry understand of sugar, that they anticipated this misunderstanding, and if they did, why didn’t they just drop the golden part and call it Brown Sugar in the first place. Nobody would tell the difference. And I still don’t know what made me imagine that golden brown sugar would make my cookies turn into horrendous abominations resembling still-born chicks. My imagination does runs rampant sometimes, but not because I have a wild or particularly vivid imagination, but just because I do an inefficent job of regulating where it goes. I should look into getting that under control sometime. Maybe. This whole situation with the golden brown sugar bothers me, but I digress.

I ended up having to go back to the store for baking store, for a number of reasons I can’t get into, which means I had to go back to the convenience store, which is just two minutes from my place, and see the same cashier again and make some remark about why I had to come back.  That and the fact that the store is only two minutes away makes it worse than if it was ten. It was convenient the first time, but now it’s just a twisting knife. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to make such a remark with this same cashier. She probably thinks I have some sort of memory issue, that or I am one of the standard Olympia weirdos. ANYWAY, baking soda. I looked into what would happen if I didn’t use baking soda, using Google searches that if you looked over my shoulder you would probably think I have very little to no understand of chemistry and baking whatsoever. Which in large part is true. But since I consider myself intelligent, any such accusation leads to a litany of defensive reasoning, which only makes me appear more like the standard Olympia weirdo that I fear I may be. ANYWAY, baking soda. It makes my cookies rise, in effect they wouldn’t really bake without it, it being baking soda. I often forget that materials are called what they are for a reason. Without the baking soda my cookies would like flat little chocolate chip crackers. Which is just a depressing image for everyone.

Now I have all the ingredients that my recipe claims that I need, and I am ready to get going with the actual work. I found out that talking on the phone about a family friend that nearly froze to death falling down and breaking their leg in the driveway, needing reconstructive surgery on his knee which has already been reconstructed with titanium, and the topic of loose tendons that need to be reconnected and various scars and blackening skin, which nobody told me about but which has apparently been a big deal in the family for the last two months, is considered a distraction during the essential initial mixing stages. So I got off the phone.

I needed to melt the butter. I read that melting butter may appear to be an elementary task, but is quite easy to screw up. So is melting butter kind of like cooking rice, the “simple” thing that some chefs don’t even get right?Butter burns between 82 and 96 degrees, and very quickly. I prepared a bowl to place the butter in, to insure that it didn’t burn. Burning the butter would be quite unfortunate, because the recipe called for two sticks and that was all I had in my fridge; I wouldn’t want to go back out to the store a third time. I felt I was informed and if not careful, then unnessecarily cautious. I started to melt the first stick in my saucepan, and as most of the stick melted, I made the deft conclusion that the melted butter might as well be removed to insure it didn’t burn as the rest of the butter melted. I strained the loose butter into my bowl, and the liquified butter amazingly only landed in the bowl. I had impressed myself. I repeated this step again, however not using as much concentration (I didn’t hold the bowl at an angle, as I did the first glorious time,) which resulted in butter trickling down the side of the butter receiving bowl, spreading along the surface of the counter, and also, as I didn’t notice, down the side of the saucepan. This made an interesting soudn and smell as I placed the saucepan on the low-heat burner. Realizing my mistake, I pulled the saucepan off the burner and started to swear as I made a move for the paper towels.  An important piece of information: For some reason i have been fortifying the paper towel area with empty bottles from my brew, making reaching for a paper towel a two-hand experience. I do not know why I didn’t move the bottles before I needed to use every inch of the kitchen counter, and especially the paper towels. My girlfriend calls this my “thoughtlessness.” I am inclined to agree. So I’m trying to grab a paper towel because I can’t find any rags and I’m holding the buttery saucepan as well, and it’s just a travesty, a really depressing scene, and I see in my periphery that the cat is watching me, and he’s probably intrigued, seeing his master trying to do this little dance with his limbs, and I’m hopping on one foot too, probably for some asinine dramatic reason, I do this when I am nervous and in motion, which really put quite a slight on my athletic career.  Basically, I’m an idiot. An idiot with butter on the burner, butter on the counter, butter on the sauce pan, and the cat is sniffing the buttery parts on the ground, which must be really intriguing to him, seeing as there’s no equivalent to butter in cat’s natural environment. Anyway, I’ll stop there, you get the picture. I cleaned it all up and mixed the butter in with the sugar.

The brown sugar, which I decimated in a series of violent  smashes against the counter, constantly shifting in direction and force, as well as my facial expression.  And as I’ve gathered from eavesdropping on strangers conversations and snippets of amateur imploring, brown sugar naturally gets hard like that. Not that it went bad. That’s how it is.  So I went to town on the brown sugar box, in fact breaking the bag inside and after I ripped the cardboard off the box in a series of decreasingly effective tears and unspooled the contents into another bowl, I finally measured it out and put into my mixing bowl. I bagged the remains in a sandwich bag, which will probably be thrashed sometime in the future with less happy results. I like good old granulated sugar. It is less difficult.

I got the mixture going and poured the chips in, it looked like a mountain of rabbit pellets that just smell delicious, and I stirred it into this gradualy thicker mush. The chocolate chips seemed less dominate in the mush as I stirred, it gradually became one with the end result, just as the other ingredients had become, they had appeared as alien and simply wrong as the chocolate chips to varying degrees and types. My mix began to resemble chocolate chip cookies.

So i had been violently sick the morning of this particular day, and i thought cooking chocolate chip cookies would cheer me up. I reasoned this from memories of cooking chocolate chip cookies with my mother on days when i was sick from school, an activity which always made me feel closer to my mother, and gave a treat in sight for when I felt better. This became the sole food I would be enthused about cooking with my mother. And she tried to teach me how to cook. Lord, she tried.

I had been listening to Loveless by My Bloody Valentine while preparing the cookies (is that weird?) and after the album ended, I flipped on The Simpsons. The episode opened with Homer going through the drive-thru and ordering a gargantuan amount of fattening and salty foods, at one point even ordering veal, and a Diet Coke of course because he’s watching his weight. He then has the entire order deep-fried, including the Diet Coke, and Mega sized as well. I find this ironic that I am watching this as I am cooking. Before this, if I was hungry and there wasn’t anything in the house, including girlfriends with knowledge and cooking skills, I would drive out to a fast food place bymself and order a disgusting meal, which only acted as a sort of time-bomb in my stomach, to explode silently and drench my innards with this life extracting property, taking all my energy and health. I would sit in the parking lot by myself, reading whatever scrap of paper I could find, usually being a real estate magazine or the City of Olympia Parks class schedules and fees. The sun would be setting as I got comfortable at my particular perch- there were specific spots I would park in to isolate the area where I felt at my lowest, the third spot from the right at McDonalds, the second row over from the drive-thru exit, third spot on the right at Burger King – And i’d sit there and watch the people come and go, the cars drift by, time seemed to be eating away at me and itself, this waste, and I’d drive home somewhat ashamed, stuffing the bag in the trash outside the building, to hide the evidence. This is why I found it ironic that this was on The Simpsons as I am making an effort to never feel like I have to do that again.

I pull out tablespoon sized goblets of dough and place it on my greased pan, and the first ones come out just divine, a light hue of brown cascading along it’s surface and they are delicate and joyous. Joe had come by as I placed them in the oven, and we both agreed, after careful examination with a pokey stick (Don’t ask,) that they should be pulled while still soft. This was a good call – I’ve honestly never tasted better cookies, and I’ve had many cookies in my day. The next batch wasn’t as great, I made smaller portions figuring I would end up with “more cookies” which was plainly stupid, because I had the same amount of dough regardless of the portion sizes. That and the smaller ones were sort of burnt and too crispy. I always have figured I could trick myself by having smaller increments of something I desired, that there would be more of them, when the intake was always the same regardless. Our greatest tricksters, is ourselves, manifested in our silent drive for wish fufillment.

ANYWAY,  I came out with about 30 cookies total, about 20 big sized and about ten little burned crispier ones, which my girlfriend likes better anyway, which is something I couldn’t plan on. I started to feel better, until I started drinking the I.P.A. with Joe and ate a few cookies. This almost immediately made me nauseous. I ened up giving Joe a ride back to campus and came home, and as soon as I walked into the door, the cookie smell made me radically more nauseous. I collapsed onto the bed, the sickness still lingering from this morning, trying to imagine other things than me vomiting a second time that day.

My girlfriend came home a little bit after that, the smell of the cookies made her ecstatic. She was a little drunk, but very lovely, and she comforted her sick, pathetic boyfriend, who bakes cookies and is trying to become a better cook. We watched most of Sullivans Travels and went to bed, and I completely forget to seal the cookies and put them in the fridge. A suitable end, indeed.

Here’s the recipe I followed, I used triple the amount of vanilla and melted the butter instead of letting it settle at room temperature, I read both are better for the sugar and makes more consistent dough. I think this is true.

http://www.well.com/user/vard/cookierecipe.html

P.S.

The cookies were fine, in fact I just ate them for breakfast.

James Attempts Brewing an I.P.A.

The big pot on my stove, this cauldron, is filled with water, we poured in bags of malt, pinches of yeast. Handfuls of green pellets pass into the water underneath my shifting palm and now I am pulling out pellets of hops and taking jumpers from various places in the kitchen. I’m doing the Shawn Marion and pushing it out violently from chest level, the Shaq free throw with eyes closed and turning a sure thing into a crap shoot. I’m practicing my bank shot, and it ricochets off the range hood unpleasantly, and blends in with the distinct mess that is my kitchen. I have hundreds and hundreds of these hops, one with a superhero name (Green Bullet,) another with a this-is-what-I’m-doing-right-now name (Northern Brewer,) one name that took between six or ten repetitions, depending on who you ask, and I’m still not sure if I got it straight because the name on my recipe looks like a name tag scalded with sulfuric acid and mud- the last four letters appearing as diabolic scrawl by a psychopath with Down’s syndrome, (Tattanager,) and one boring one complimenting a particular region (Cascade) and they each have specific alpha levels and aromas, a purposeful device when plopped into the brew at a specific time. My bittering hops swell and collapse under the weight of the nearly boiling water. We bring it to a boil every so often, chaotically yank up the dial and watch the green cloud appear after I drop a handful of hops in, as if I’m creating something new to the universe entirely, birthed from some nether world of my imagination. Then it’s gone, it drifts towards the bottom, disintegrating and producing something positive in a way bodies never could.

It should almost go without saying, but we are drinking as we brew. My co-worker, who used to work at a brewery, has promised to come over and teach me how to do it the first few times. He is tall and has large features, which give a fluid life to everything he does, a light fleeting wonder over every corner, especially the ones that looked dull to me only an hour before. He brought over some beer he’s brewed called TeaBaggin,’ an ale brewed with black tea that is murky and provides a heavy stimulation to my senses. We occasionally lose track of the boil because our attention drifts, either towards the game, or towards the rapidly diminishing supply of lime flavored tortilla chips, or towards wondering whose beer is whose, a matter of constant confusion. My girlfriend rips the labels off her bottles; I am not sure if she does this to remember which bottle is hers, or if she’s frustrated with me for some reason. But she always tears the label, and I’m convinced she isn’t frustrated, she says it is just a habit.

We are habitual. Habitual drinkers. Habitual eaters. Habitual sleepers. Habitual talkers. I go out the same door at the same time everyday. I come back in through the same door at the same time. We are habitual in our actions. But the tangible evidence of these actions, real physical things, are constantly fluctuating. We both eat three meals a day and they are always different. We are always cooking a different meal for dinner. A different combination of entrée and sides. Usually a piece of cooked meat, sautéed vegetables of some sort, manipulated potatoes, rice made in our queer rice cooker, it somehow always knows when the rice is done, even if I unplug it mid cycle to test it’s effect, the switch pulls back up to “Keep Warm.” I know this fucker is fallible.

My girlfriend initiates this variety in our diet. She curses many of my ideas of what makes a meal. Shuts down a suggestion of a frozen food placed into the oven until it resembles food. These are all terrible, lazy, formulaic modes of eating. I make the same sandwich for lunch everyday, and I toss a banana and a small snack into a yellow Grocery Outlet bag that bounces against my knee as I walk into work. When she isn’t home, I’ll cook a frozen pizza, frankly, because it’s my weekly opportunity to pretend I am a lazy single snob. I see the difference now between preparing food for inert consumption in order to survive, and taking food and cooking it. She tries, she invents, she creates, and she is my model for a cook. She is the one who got me the necessary equipment to begin brewing beer; she kick started this stubborn horse into work.

And the work is sporadic. The pouring of the malt was stressful for me, it was double-bagged, due to the first bag splitting at the store, and the clerk re-bagged it for us. This doesn’t seem altogether very stressful without necessary context. Here’s the story. The last time I assisted my co-worker in a brew, the situation was identical with the bag of malt that he was using. I must tell you, he recklessly and irresponsibly gave me the job of pouring the malt into the brew. It’s important to note that my stove is electric, and his is gas, and we were brewing at this house, and as you can imagine this may go bad, and it did, because as I removed the first bag slowly with a look of solemn indignant fear cast upon my face, the majority of the contents of the second bag had flooded into the back of the bag or leaped out of the bag or something I didn’t expect/understand, so the malt came out in this vicious ugly clump that spread and burned up like lit gunpowder, (the malt is expensive to boot) so this pestilence fell over the side of the pot and over the gas burner, immediately igniting into this flaming caramel goo that ignited both of our pants and shirts, his eyebrows, and my hand in this white translucent orange heat that looks dark brown now, but then an orange pulsating terror, and we danced and hopped up and down in his kitchen towards the sink/the door/literally anywhere else, and our clothes and facial features and extremities aflame, and our friend sat in the corner screaming “Holy shit, you guys are on fire,” and after we managed to put out our burning clothes, we stamped out the remaining malt/caramel/fire that was staining the floor in front of the oven in this pitiful clump, this physical reminder of “that really did just happen, didn’t it!” and we both took a deep breath and silently blamed each other for the momentary crisis. Mind when the malt hit the floor in this flaming goo, it also hit the bottom of our feet, for which we are both thankful to have been wearing wool socks, it being winter. But now we have this awful sticky caramel embossed on the bottom of our respective socks, which we stamped all over his hardwood floors as we fluttered like school girls in a 4^th grade ballerina performance with our eyes closed whilst also combating a forceful fire, that threatens to overtake the house, which is wooden, and old, and filled with other people, innocent people, who may not be ready for death at the hands of burning orange oozy caramel.

Short to say it was a sight. I put my pair of socks in a closet to remind me that making beer can indeed kill or disfigure me quickly, and not just kill and disfigure me gradually. My singed hand recovered. My co-workers eyebrows may or may not grow back. He hung his socks in his kitchen to commemorate the moment as well as the three days of mopping that followed. He decided to call that particular brew Sticky Foot. I have yet to look at a bag of malt without a quiver running through my body, especially my hand, and my best outfit is now caked in that fucking caramel, and I’m not sure if my co-worker ever received the bill I sent him to replace the clothes, because I haven’t received a check..

ANYWAY, the work is sporadic. But the malt went in fine this time, though I was still nervous, even though my burner is electric, which is kind of ridiculous but also kind of isn’t. It’s like when a dog with an electric collar goes near the shock line even when isn’t wearing the collar, there is a pattern recognition, he remembers the pain from before, even when all empirical evidence points otherwise. At least, that’s my argument for my preoccupation. This is better than calling me a pussy. To me, at least.

Before the adding of the malt, we put in the grains, some named after European cities (Munich, Vienna,) one named after a mineral (Crystal,) and my co-worker (who is named Joe for future reference, I’m just sick of writing co-worker and thinking of him strictly as that, even though I won’t refer to him by name again in this post…) has this big cone that he places in the pot after we’ve filled ¾ of this 3 gallon pot with water, and I put this bag into the cone and pour the grains into the bag, and mix it with this big plastic spoon, which I am coming perilously close to naming Salad Fingers and not telling my girlfriend why. So I stir the bag with the spoon as it begins to disintegrate and work, like I was saying, and it smells interesting, and my arm is getting tired a little because I am stirring constantly, not in the proverbial sense. (Side note: I find in my note taking that I keep on switching between using numerals and the word to indicate numerals. It is much easier to write 2 5/8 lbs instead of Two and five-eighths pounds. This is also true in all my note taking, I am increasingly using more shorthand, something I was always stridently against. Am I getting lazier or more advanced in my work? Something to ponder on. Or not. Totally boring.)

ANYWAY, my arm is getting tired, so we slow down and drink and watch the game for awhile. I cook these porkchops I had been preparing during the downtime during brewing, and put ketchup and lemon on it, like my Betty Crocker Cooking for Two book says I should, and my girlfriend reminds me that the book was written in a time when all meat was cooked drier than an Arizona desert, and the calories are simply fucking astronomical, but I don’t care, it ends up being nearly unbearably dry on the edges, but tender and succulent on the inside, and I am happy. We cooked some brussel sprouts, soaked in butter and salt, and tossed them into the rice cooker at full capacity, apparently, it can steam veggies as well, it can do it all, this little bugger from Target has surpassed my exceptionally low expectations. So our dinner is decent. Finish shooting in the hops and fantasizing we are professional athletes, which goes on for nearly an hour and a half. And that’s pretty much it cooking-wise, and I shoot in some of the last hops for aroma as I turn off the burner. The brew can get infected, and moldy and nasty and utterly worthless, as it’s cooling, in this range between 170 and 120 degrees, so we watch with the thermometer and as soon as it gets near 170 we drop it into this vat of cold water I’ve prepared in the sink, and drop four trays of ice into the brew to shorten the amount of time that the brew is in this dangerous range, and gets below in about 15 minutes, which is very, very good.

Now I get down on my knees, and suck the end of this tube to get the brew running from the pot into the carboy, and I have to pull hard, but I finally get it going, and catch a bit of it in my mouth, and it is an I.P.A. and it tastes bitter at first but then the heaviness and thickness of the hops hits my senses and I’m happy, I’ve produced something that isn’t dreadful or poison and we cap it after the carboy fills up and I throw it in the bottom of my closet to ferment for two weeks. I clean up the hundred million spots on the kitchen counter before they settle into permanent fixturehood. I really am a talented cleaner, and I am not humble about it in any way.

The fermentation process was finally over as of last night and I bottled the whole batch, filling various pop-off bottles we’ve drank over the last month, and capping them with this cute black little device with arms that I pull that pushes this pin onto the cap and provides ample pressure for the cap and the bottle to become one. The satisfaction of finally smelling my brew, as it will smell as the final product, was quite memorable. I felt like a parent for a second. It was nice knowing I had created this smell, this liquid of  revelry. It had a hearty autumn pumpkin like smell, and will have an A.B.V. of about 9.5%, thanks to some ridiculous math I still don’t quite understand, involving arrows, charts and units of measurements that are foreign to me. The bottles are sitting in the bottom of my closet, and I think I want to name the “brewery” after our pet cat, Charlie. Pictured below. Expect to hear quite a rumble from Deaf Cat Brewery in the future.

Cats love hats!

Next post: Chocolate Chip Cookies.