Observations of the semi disgruntled.

Yesterday morning the domestic bug bit me. I've been a huge fan of "foodie" magazines for a long while now but rarely do I get the chance to actually put them to any use. There are always lovely pictures and exotic ingredients (never available in Small Town, USA) and fantastical bits of new enameled cookware that I'm oh so enamored with. If I ever win the lottery I'm redoing my kitchen in LeCruset with a lovely trim of KitchenAid. Anyway, whilst perusing last month's issue of Cooks Illustrated in bed night before last I came upon a recipe for the ultimate chocolate chip cookie. Well, I know good and well where the ultimate chocolate chip cookie comes from....my mother in law. Hands down winner any day of the week.....and twice on Sunday. But, I figured I'd give it a try seeing as how I had all the required ingredients on hand ( a miracle in and of itself!) It took about an hour just to make the batter. You have to brown the butter first and then add the dark brown and white sugar and then the eggs. That part was outfuckingstanding. Kinda like if Werther's were to make ice cream topping. Sadly though, the sugar/butter base was a good as it got. The magazine raved about how the browned butter gave it depth and the particular brand of chocolate chips it called for did some magnificent thing.....I call bullshit. I followed those damn directions to the T. They were OK. Not even close to what I would call "ultimate". You feel like adding the word ultimate to a recipe....you better have your shit together or you're going to get called on it. I think from now on I'll let my MIL take care of the cookies and I'll stick to what I know.

In addition to being somewhat irked with my food porn I'm also taking issue with my pants cutting into my ever expanding waistline. Obviously I'm finding some decent edibles somewhere....even if they're not in the form of a cookie. I had decided to run down to the local mall....there is one "better" department store still left.....and see if I could procure something to disguise or possibly flatter my girth. Upon my arrival in the store ( I choose the store entrance instead of the main mall entrance because I loathe a damn mall. I believe in getting in and out as quickly as possible. Sooooo contrary to the days of my youth.) I notice that they must be under the mistaken impression that it's the dead of winter. For the record, the temperature outside had reached a high of 92 and the humidity made it feel like it was about ...oh I don't know...210 degrees. Immediately, I begin to sweat. Every garment in the place is touching, which gives the average size woman about 1/2 inch to maneuver. In turn, this gives a healthy girl such as myself about .205mm to move. There were a few selections made and I made my way to the hell hole commonly referred to as the dressing room....complete with the suicide mirror (you know the one). Mr. Roark and Tattoo should have met me at the door with a fucking lei and little pineapple drink. Within seconds of beginning the process of trying on clothes I had a thin bead of sweat on my upper lip. Before I could reach around to zip my dress I was sweating like I'd been plowing a field in Alabama. In August. I was hot, sweaty, ill as hell and my hair and makeup were shot to shit. (Good hair and makeup are essential when trying on clothes.....#1 fat girl rule...the more skin exposed in the clothing to be tried on, the better your head has to look. Detracts from the tank ass.) I have absolutely no clue whether that sundress looked good on me or not....nor will I ever know. A few weeks later I went back to the same store (sauna?) with my dear mama. This time it was for her and not me. How bad could it be if you are just an innocent bystander? You don't want to know. I will say this.....I was sorely afraid of spontaneous combustion.

I'm not sure if "Better Dept. Store" is trying to cut operations expenses by keeping the thermostat set a bit higher or if they're just fucking clueless. What I am sure of, is this.....If you want to make sure you DO NOT sell a single stitch of your "Better Maker Sportswear" in the plus size department (which by the way, you're charging 10 dollars MORE for!!).....keep it hot. Because, if a fat girl liked to sweat....she'd be thin.

Praise God and turn down the AC.