Sometimes I believe I was placed here to make others feel better about their own lives.
For instance, today.
Well, it started early this week when I was thinking, “Amy, if you’re gonna make cookies, you need to get on it.” And I answered, “ehhh, I’ll do it Thursday night and that way I can deliver Friday.”
So last night I broke out my recipe book and flipped to the back to my beloved peanut butter cookies. I don’t eat them, so they’re about the only truly selfless thing I do for others.
I’m gathering ingredients. I had conveniently forgotten you have to bring the eggs and butter to room temperature. Dang it. No way to hasten that without breeding bacteria.
I read on.
Chill a minimum of three hours.
Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap.
By the time I got ingredients to room temp and everything mixed, it would be 7:00. Three hours puts me at 10:00, also known as Amy’s bedtime. But in a stroke of brilliance, I figure I can just take the batter to work and bake them there. No fuss, no muss.
Well, I woke up at 5:11. Not on purpose. I just did. So I went ahead and got up and decided to bake the cookies.
Hmm. That’s odd. Dough was still sticky and very pliable. I vividly remember in years past wishing for a hammer and chisel to pry enough loose to form a ball.
🤷‍♀️ I pressed on, making sixteen little cookies and mashed a fork on each one. They immediately squished, another unfavorable characteristic. But in for a penny, in for a pound. I popped them in the oven and set the timer for ten minutes.
The flat mess that looks like a pizza crust was the result.

I moved the remaining dough to the freezer, thinking my fridge must be going out, and I’d think about that tomorrow. Cookies are a today problem, and I can only marginally cope with one issue at a time.
Chester paced at my feet, offering encouragement and silently offering to be quality control.
I got ready for work and brought the dough with me. Stuck it in the freezer here. Completed secretarial tasks.
Pulled back my hair and put my apron on. Retrieved dough from freezer. Pleased that it was now a consistency I was familiar with. Rolled into balls. Mashed with fork.
About the time I got to cookie #12, I noted the dough was already becoming less firm.
This might be an Amy issue, not a fridge failure. Imagine that.
So sure enough, pulled them out, and a similar mess to the one I was confronted with at 5:30.

I wondered if maybe it was due to the brief intermission I took when David Newman happened by with a warm Chickalay biscuit and his sweet heeler. (I love Christmas, biscuits from friends for no reason). But no. Couldn’t be.
And then I had my epiphany.
I had used self rising flour in place of all purpose flour. This can usually be done without adverse effects, you just have to omit the other powder ingredients (baking soda, baking powder, and salt).
Well, two outta three ain’t bad.
So this is what it looks like when you make peanut butter cookies with self rising flour PLUS salt.
0/5, do not recommend.
If this is the worst that happens to me this week, Wyatt, I am ROLLING.

I made it through Walmart Market without my blood pressure becoming elevated, everybody was at their jolliest. Maybe it was due to the enormous Christmas ball necklace strung around my neck; perhaps I looked too crazy to cross 🤣🤣🤣🤣 {they ain’t wrong 😏} oh!! And I ran into Kathy, Chester’s Number One Fan, that I worked with at Food City that hot summer. It was so great. Surprisingly, she was the only one I knew in the place, so I managed to get out in nearly record time.

Ahhhh, Christmas. The chaos continues and the countdown is truly on.

Jingling all the way,

~Amy

Postscript: this reminded me of another year when there was a mishap involving peanut butter cookies. My Uncle Dale’s best friend, Kent, had a weakness for them. So I promised I’d make him his very own batch and deliver. I’d never been to their house, but I knew where it was. I texted his wife on my way, but she didn’t answer. I get there and the gate at the bottom of their driveway was closed, indicating they were out. No problem, I just nestled the container under the latch post where they couldn’t miss it, and sent them another text that they had been delivered.

A short time later Cheryl texts back that they were home and their gate was open. I describe the flag on their gate. Turns out I delivered to their neighbors, whom they didn’t know. Since not much time had passed, I instructed to hustle over there and retrieve them. They could show my texts as proof the cookies had not been delivered to the correct recipient.

Well, lo and behold the container of cookie s had already disappeared! I really hope they enjoyed them and didn’t think they were poisoned. 🤣🤣🤣🤣 It is also my sincere wish that they needed the pick me up Christmas magic, because Kent was sorely disappointed and he passed suddenly before the following Christmas, so he never did get his own batch. But we had a good time laughing about it for awhile, anyway.