The story of my life is that when I fail, i fail BIG. No wussy itty bitty stuff. Just gargantuan, hideously embarrassing, terminally mortifying horror.
Same is true of my cooking. I'm often quite good, and occasionally spectacular. But when I fall, I fall hard. And our garbage disposal gets a workout.
I don't usually post those recipes.
However, today I am posting a fail that ended up tasting quite good. In fact, I would recommend it–if someone could help me figure out how to get through it with less desire to slap it with a spatula.
So, here's the deal:
(Feel free to play the song below as you browse the photos. It will set the mood. It describes how I often feel toward my recipes when they go awry. When listening, just substitute the word "recipe" for all references to love, romance, lovers, or happiness.) (On the other hand, the song is pretty rocking, and even though it is a bit noir, you're going to want to dance to it. So listen to it first, then look. Then listen, look, listen . . . )
Annnnnnd . . . . GO!
My mother-in-law obtained this chocolate for me. She's written "Dark Cho for Janiel" in permanent marker on the outside of the packet. This is so no one accidentally mistakes what's in it for actual edible MILK chocolate and uses it for, like, food or something. No. She wants to be SURE that the Hemlock-like block goes to NO ONE but her odd Daughter-in-law-Janiel-who-clearly-has-mental-issues-because-she-likes-dark-chocolate.
Removing the Dark Chocolate Matter from it's protective wrappings. The first time I offered a piece of dark chocolate candy to my hub's mom, she looked at me as though I had said, "May I schmear dog-poop on your bagel for you?"
Finding a second layer of protective wrappings beneath the first. Thank heavens for foresight. This stuff might have touched an innocent counter-top, or *gasp!* un-gloved hand.
And we commence the dicing into delicate chocolate morsels. Come on, little brick of gourmet loveliness, dice. DICE! (shave, shave, shave) Stupid, stupid block of gourmet chocolate.
Twenty minutes later I am sure I must be done. It's taking forEVER. There must be more than the two-cups required here. Three, at least! Let's measure.
HACK, HACK, HACK!
Thirty-five minutes later we achieve two cups of little chocolate curls and shavings interspersed with ragged chunks. Half of it is smeared on my hand. And, by the way, it doesn't wash off without a gallon of Joy, grease-cutting dish soap. Because this is gourmet chocolate. This is gourmet chocolate with lots of cocoa butter and stuff. Or something. Or maybe it's cheap waxy stuff. It cost what costly stuff costs, so it'd better be good! (wash, wash, wash)
On with the Original Tollhouse Recipe. Mounds of flour, soda, and salt . . . .
Followed by gobs of butter and sugar and splashes of vanilla . . .
Tagged along with by the eggs–added one at a time and beaten well after each. Except not. Obviously I can't read a recipe when I'm upset with chocolate. Oh well. Hopefully it works, and neither egg is offended by not being treated as an individual.
And then the chocolate. Sweet Mary Francis on Buttered Toast! Look at that batter-to-chocolate-shavings ratio!
Check it, my peeps. Stirred together. Looks kind of like Oreo ice cream. Not sure? Let's look closer:
Yes. yes it does. That blurry bit in the foreground is playing hazard on my eyes. You?
Lovely little mounds of cookie dough on the sheet, placed there carefully and lovingly by me, using my lovely little cookie dough scooper thingie. You should get one of those. They're lovely.
Aerial view, brought to you by Chopper 5, Eye-In-The-Sky.
Does it bother you that the last little cookie blob on the bottom right there is not aligned with the others? Does it?
Now we bake.
And, Voil– er. They're sort of . . . . brown. And marbled. And flat. And crispy. And I don't see no chocolate morsels. Where are the chocolate morsels? WHERE THE HOO-HAH ARE THE BLINKING CHOCOLATE MORSELS I JUST SPENT HALF AN HOUR SHAVING LIKE SOME SORT OF LOW-PAID BARBER-BAKER REMINISCENT OF JOHNNY DEPP IN SWEENY TODD?!
Oh. There they are. Spread all through the cookie.
And may I just say:
So, okay. Maybe Miss Otis DOESN'T regret. These were mighty fine little Dork Cookies.