For Christmas last year Alex’s Mom gave me a recipe box filled with handwritten cards of Alex’s favorite dishes. As one might expect, its sat untouched on a pantry shelf for the last 9 months. It wasn’t until they made plans to visit over the weekend that I decided I should be an impressive and ambitious daughter-in-law. I would cook something! I would achieve mastery over one of her dessert recipes!
There are so many reasons why this was a terrible idea:
2. Our kitchen is the size of a box you could fill with books and still be able to carry up a flight of stairs.
3. The recipe was written on a small white card from 1999 and involved zero pictures and zero hand holding to get me through every step of the process.
Panic set in with Step One:
Combine 1 ½ cups of crushed oreos with ¼ stick of softened butter.
Let’s move beyond your correct assumption that I completely melted the butter and focus on how unhelpful it is to refer to the quantity of oreos in a post-crushed state. How many oreos does it take to create 1 ½ cups of crushed oreo? Seven? Seventeen? Seventeen packages?
This would be so much easier if I had at least four photos—taken from different angles by a camera that cost at least $2400—of the oreo-crushing process. But no.
Seeking to contain the mess as much as possible, I put a stack of Oreos in a zip lock bag and unceremoniously beat it with a rolling pin. Turns out this is a really great way to coat the inside of a ziplock bag with a thick crusty layer of oreo goo that refuses to evacuate– no matter how much you shake it like a polaroid picture.
Alex was trying to watch The Sports while I held the bag with my fingertips, haphazardly swiping at it with a pair of scissors while screaming at the top of my lungs.
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