I don’t want to raise any red flags or anything - and this is certainly no indication of how little attention I pay the real world - but apparently we’re selling uncooked cookie dough now.
You can tell where this is going, right? That it’s recently made an appearance in my freezer?
Henceforth and forthwith, anytime I have a craving for uncooked dough, stuffing a handful or two into my face will be as easy as stepping up a pants’ size.
It’s a great time to be alive. And lacking in self-control.
I’ve always been a fan of the uncooked/undercooked. I can actually be the one cracking the eggs into the batter and still find myself licking the beaters.
“You get worms that way,” my mother says.
“From raw eggs?”
“No, that’s Sam and Ella,” she says, stealing a line from my father. “You get worms from the flour.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say. And this is hard to say, and not just because I’m saying it to my mother, the woman what bore me, but because I’m licking a spoon while saying it.
But the cookies, the uncooked cookies in my freezer. Oatmeal Raisin: cookie-sized lumps of love lie dormant, pre-oven, pre-thigh, in my freezer, nestled amongst the frozen grouse bodies and the bag of ice from my last get-together, an invitation to have one – okay, two – just because I can.
Gaining weight should be more difficult, don’t you think?
Don't forget to come back tomorrow, wherein Pearl hires day laborers to exercise her limbs while she eats various foodstuffs directly from the fridge.