Now for my new readers, let me explain that Bossy Betty is the Patron Saint of Homemade Cookies. I believe very strongly in their power and strength and have devoted myself to uplifting them to the high status which they deserve. For years, I have worked and baked and striven to uplift the tastes of the common people by making exquisite homemade cookies to show them there is more to life than Chips Ahoy and Nutter Butters. There is CERTAINLY more to Cookie Culture than this:
Corn Syrup? Partially Hydrogenated Soybean/and or Cottonseed Oil? Artificial Color? Artificial Flavor? These is the equivalent of thick make-up, garish rouge, and falsies.
WHY, oh WHY did HOB go out and get this stuff? His lovely, natural wife makes the BEST homemade cookies anywhere!
Well, fascinating and intelligent as he is in other areas, my dear husband is stunted in one area: cookie preference. Moreover, he is stubbornly unwilling to develop, to grow, to explore. I know he will not mind me saying such inflammatory words because we have discussed his limitations hour after hour after hour.
(OK, I guess it was mostly me talking, but you get the idea.)
He likes only one cookie: Oatmeal Raisin, without nuts.
Boring? Well, frankly, yes. Which would be fine and we could keep this as our own little family secret, but I feel the need to speak out now. You see, he believes, deep in his caveman heart, that it is the only cookie I should make. Somehow, he thinks this would show my allegiance to him, a sort of 1950's country music "he's-my-man-and-I'm-his-woman" side. He believes this with an evangelistic zeal. "Thou shall make no other cookie but the Oatmeal Raisin because this is the cookie thy husband prefers."
Narrow-minded? Yes.
Barbarian? Yes.
Bordering on Crazed Nut-Job?
Well, yes.
It's not that I have not made the Oatmeal Raisin without nuts for him. I have. Chained, bound, restricted by his sad limitation, I have mindlessly and without enthusiasm thrown together the simpleton cookie. Then, after weeks and weeks of the mundane, I grew restless and bored. I added maybe a little coconut, switched out the raisins for dried cherries, snuck in a little ground cloves. I mean--what's not to love? And what is my reward for my God-given sense of adventurousness?
Sulking.
Man Sulking.
The worst kind of sulking.
I have explained to him over and over again that when you marry a flamboyant, showy multicolored wonder bird such as Betty, you can't put her in wire cage in a factory farm setting and force her to produce one kind of egg. That constitutes torture in my book.
She needs to be out and about, exploring and sharing her plumage with the world and when she lays a multi-colored egg, it is for the world's benefit, to beautify the otherwise dull surroundings.
Though I love the man, there is no way he is going to clip my Cookie Wings. Therefore I still make Molasses Snaps, Chocolate/Ginger Wonders, Raisin/Carrot Chewies. This produces only more Man Sulking.
Would you ask Badgley Mischka to design clothing using one fabric only?
Would you force Baryshnikov to dance using just a pas de chat?
So, you may be asking me, why does this bag of prefabricated wallpaper paste posing as real almost-made cookie dough bother me so much? After all, the man is going to make them himself. (Oh yes, he will ALL by himself.) He is getting what he wants. So what's the problem?
It's because he is living with Rembrandt and insists on clowns-on-black velvet paintings. He should appreciate my talents. He should have never brought this cheap harlot in from the streets to sit on my pretty kitchen counter. This is WORSE than bringing home store-bought cookies. Those say: "Impulse Buy." These say: "You can't meet my cookie needs, so I have to go out and bring in someone who will." THIS, my friends, is a classic PCBT--A Premeditated Cookie Baking Transgression and he intends for me to watch the whole thing.
Will she give him what he wants? Yes.
Will it be cheap and fast? Yes.
Will he feel good afterwards? For a short time.
Will she pass on diseases? Try obesity and diabetes as a start. (Note above ingredients again, please.)
I just hope he has a good time mixing it up with her and then watching her having a hot time in the oven.
Oh, I'm sure he will. I know him. He'll be all over her cookies as soon as they come out of the oven.
As for my reaction--I'm going to take the high road. I'll be the patient and abiding wife. He'll see the error of his way soon enough. He'll come back and see the wisdom of homemade cookies with a wide variety of ingredients. I am calm, forbearing, good and kind. Pretty soon he'll beg me for some Lime Coolers with Almond Paste.
I wish him the best as he goes through this learning opportunity.
I just hope that bag of oatmeal flakes and assorted chemicals was not damaged by my accidental and violent slamming of it against the counter sixteen or seventeen times.
Bring it on, Crocker. May the Best Betty Win.
