Ted (merovingian) wrote,

(stolen by robots)

For posterity's sake, here is my very bad cookie dough recipe. I am pretty sure that yes, it came from robots who were tampering with the secrets of sleep.

Step One: Begin with cheap, store-bought chocolate chip cookie dough from a drug store or convenience store, not a supermarket. Consider your history, your shoes and your home street. Let them wash over you like a river, and refresh you, and then forget you. Become the brambles you fear.

Step Two: Make a counterexample. Take soft clay and roll it in shards of glass, cursing the dragons and manticores who never named you, your teeth growing whiter and whiter with malice. Let your hands go dry and cracked. Let your eyes wander. Perhaps a crueler beast will stumble upon you, but perhaps you may find, after that crueler beast stumbles along, that you could learn a lesson from such august company. Burn candles in memory of summers that never should have happened. Wear a crown of tin.

Step Three: Add too much salt.

Step Four: You were never here, and so the silk ties and scraps of torn wrapping paper you leave in your wake will melt in the moonlight. Your hunger will fade in fifteen minutes. Your sorrow will last until you challenge it with rulers and rhetoric and heartlessly measure every side and angle, judge it unworthy, and walk away in arrogance. Zebras and tractors will scream for you. You will plunge your hands into the barrels of candy and yams, and clutch deeply, but when you pull your hands out, you will have an owl's talons instead.

Step Five: Preheat your oven at 350 Fahrenheit for sixty million years. If you are using the Celsius system, then you should be riding a bicycle and playing "soccer" instead. I will watch you with wide, admiring, river-green eyes while you do. Remember me as you pass the finish line, kicking and pedaling, and perhaps spare a few kind words for that stuttering oven.

Step Six: Slather a baking sheet with butter. Whales are mammals, right? So they must nurse their young, and where there is milk, there is potential for butter. Slather that baking sheet with the butter of whales, of fruitbats, of sloths and bears and lions. You were born out there among them, before you went down to the post office and found the stairway through the ionosphere. Do not pretend that you have risen above that oh-so-humble baking sheet now, and do not withdraw into excuses and silver boots. Slather it, I tell you, or your cookies will weep.

Step Seven: Lay out the flattened cookies for ten people, fifty people, a thousand. Place awkward, self-effacing advertisements on national cable stations and satellite radio. Host your own barbecue on the island. Scream proudly; you are the conqueror.

Step Eight: Realize that you never cooked that cookie dough. You just handed it out, blithely thinking that no one could tell the difference between cookie and dough, that baking was always an illusion, that your crazy little smile is a substitute for diligence. Apologize and ask for the cookie dough back. It was never a cookie. Those satellite radio ads were a bad idea you'd rather forget. Be dragged away by lizards and by sleds, never to be seen again. Only your cookie dough will remain, spread across the world and brought back again. Mix in walnuts or something, but never ashes. This is your legacy. The lizards and sleds will not steal the cookie dough away, but you will have no such luck.

Step Nine: Twist about like your own worst enemy. You were platinum once, remember? You were the youngest of them all and you thought, perhaps, that they envied you. Now you sit on a throne of particle board and you carry a basket wherever you go. Let your cookie dough be a warning to others. Forget yourself and pretend you never wore those silver boots.


If you decide to try this recipe, let me know how it goes.
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