Learn to operate a kitchen timer successfully.
Evidently they only work properly if you set the time AND press start.
You might suspect that I’m leading up to a story about burned food, billowing smoke and an angry smoke detector. On the contrary, this is a sad story about soupy, undercooked cookies and cream chess bars. To be completely accurate, all but a one inch perimeter of the big pan was soupy and goopy. The edges were perfectly cooked. And very tasty.
I’m a pretty honest person, but I think I’ll refrain from admitting how much of that one inch border of perfectly baked goodness ended up in my mouth. Ahem. A girl has to have some self respect.
Make believe or not.
All I can say is that the time I had tentatively planned to spend on the treadmill tomorrow morning is no longer negotiable.
Workouts fueled by self loathing.
Perhaps this should be my new workout slogan?
They looked done.
The top was slightly browned and I was actually fearful that I had over cooked them. In my opinion, slightly under baked goodies are far more desirable than over baked.
Soupy is not under baked. Soupy is gross.
Even for my standards.
I’m making lasagna for Craig and his peeps tomorrow. I bring dinner around 5pm, but the dessert was going in to work early so Craig could share with the morning shift.
Uh, that’s not happening now.
Instead, we’re going to set aside half of tomorrow’s re-made bars for the morning crew on Thursday.
So now I have to cut Body Pump even shorter than usual(on Wednesday I leave after biceps….tomorrow it’ll be after triceps), run across the parking lot to the grocery store, grab cream cheese, oreos and a can of tomato paste (not for the chess bars!)…and a coffee (Bloom has the best coffee) and then rush to Caroline’s school for lunch.
I warned her I may be a few minutes late. It all depends on how well my hair chooses to cooperate during the drying/styling portion of the morning. If it feels like treating me nicely, I won’t have to rush too much.
But, my hair is much like me: finicky and compliant only when the mood strikes.
Man, I really wish I hadn’t eaten so much of my reject bars.
Excuse me while run up and down the stairs a few times.
And then convince Caroline that the television does not have to be on while she’s reading her book in an entirely different room.
She’s supposed to be reading.
She’s not watching the TV. She can’t see it. Or hear it.
She’s in another room, yet she wants it on. With the sound down.
Say it with me, huh?!?
For some reason her little brain isn’t thinking clearly.
Or maybe I’m not able to comprehend, since, you know, I’m about to enter a diabetic coma.