In addition to being the modern day depression survivor, I also fancy myself a bit of a baker, and since we've roped family and friends into painting the restaurant this weekend, I figured the least I could do is make them delicious treats so that they don't resent us too much for spending the last vestiges of Summer getting a crick in their necks painting the ceiling of our livelihood.
In theory these are the same biscuit. But the first batch (those on the left) clearly didn't work, so I added more flour. Now they resemble soft hockey pucks. They're like a resistant sponge.
I genuinely don't know what happened. This time I was actually trying to follow the recipe.
But Gregory (who, lets remember is a trained professional) gave me a baking book for christmas that has the measurements in ounces.
Who uses ounces anymore?
But, not to be deterred, I found a receptacle that records such ancient measurements (the old jug we use to rinse Q's hair in the bath) and I was off on my merry way.
It's so disheartening to mix and bake and crack eggs and spill flour everywhere and get the sifter wet by accident and have the oven on the wrong temperature and burn yourself on the hot tray and drop the muffin patty cases all over the floor and run out of milk and do countless loads of washing up, only to have your creations totally, utterly fail.
I've got one last card. My ace. My hidden hand...choc chip cookies.
The recipe I have seems to be Naomi-proof, and the result is always delicious.
I just can't be arsed doing anymore washing up.
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