friday night in 3

Sentences, that is.

1) “At least you weren’t holding the bag with the eggs.”

The Boyfriend and I did almost all of our holiday shopping last night (at Williams Sonoma, obviously), because in the past few days I have been infected with so much holiday spirit that it feels like I’m going to explode. We got lots of cute little gifts and we also got five stainless steel and ceramic cookie jars that we’re going to fill with homemade cookies for his family. After Williams Sonoma, we went to the grocery store and got about $60 worth of baking ingredients (to do a test run and see which cookie recipes we like enough to use for our gifting in a few weeks). Loaded down with bags, we decided to take the subway home because we weren’t having much luck finding a cab we’re so economical. The bags were heavy, especially for me because I’m pathetic when it comes to upper body strength/carrying things/being useful for pretty much any tasks that aren’t complaining or eating macaroni and cheese.

Luckily though, while carrying two huge heavy bags and my purse, I managed to step on exactly the part of the street outside The Boyfriend’s apartment that was covered with a nice patch of invisible ice (thanks nature) and I slipped on it. I don’t mean that I slipped a little and regained my balance, I mean I completely wiped out in the middle of the street and went crashing face first into the sidewalk while my purse and shopping bags went flying, spilling their contents and causing quite a stir as everyone around did that “Oh my goodness, are you okay!?” thing.

The Boyfriend helped me up; I was crying a little (because I’m a baby) and had skinned knees (even through my jeans!), but, as he said, “at least you weren’t holding the bag with the eggs.”

2) “That girl isn’t wearing any shoes.”

About a third of the way into my baking endeavour I looked around and saw that there were ingredients everywhere. Our entire kitchen (which for a studio apartment is surprisingly and wonderfully huge) was filled with butter and eggs and sugar and measuring cups and cooling racks and all of the other craziness needed to make holiday cookies. (Please note, in the picture below, some things with which I am obsessed: my red Kitchen Aid Artisan Stand Mixer, my Macbook (and gchatting), my pink apron, and that silver headband).

The Boyfriend had just run out to get me some parchment paper when I grabbed the jar of Sarabeth’s Mixed Berry Jam and tried (unsuccessfully) to open it. For some reason, I just CAN’T open jars. Pretty much any jars (sometimes even water bottles); I really need those little rubber grip things that help you open jars (do you hear me Santa?!). Well the jar-opening situation could not wait until The Boyfriend returned from the grocery store so I went to work on it, banging the lid against the corner of the counter, whacking the lid with a knife, and finally (because I’m an intellectual superstar) covering my hands with maple syrup in an attempt to make them sticky and thereby more easily able to open the jar. All attempts resulted in failure and the cookies needed to get into the oven and I needed the f*cking jam open. So I darted out of the apartment, into the elevator, down to the lobby, and up to the front desk, asking the doorman if he wouldn’t mind opening my (now gross, sticky, and dented) jar of jam. He did it (in like .25 seconds) and was actually really nice about it (especially after I said I’d bring down some cookies later), but the four guys in the lobby who were bundled up in winter clothes? they obviously weren’t as used to my Crazy as the doorman:

“That girl isn’t wearing any shoes.” (Weird stares)
“And, look, she’s wearing a pink apron and carrying a jar of jam around the lobby.”

3) “Well, they shouldn’t be in arms reach then.”

I don’t mess around when I’m in baking mode. I literally baked for over four hours straight last night, but it was worth it because the cookies are delicious. I made: Mini-Cheesecakes (recipe courtesy of my Secret Blogger Santa), Chocolate Peanut Butter Sandwich cookies, and Butter & Jam Thumbprints. (I also started the process of making a 3-D Santa Claus cake, but this will be followed up on at a later date.) Anyway, The Boyfriend’s official job when I’m baking is to be the guy who gets things off high shelves (and the guy who opens jars, usually). His unofficial job is to be the food taster. When The Boyfriend tasted the Butter Jam cookies, the interaction went something like this:

“What do you think? Are they good?”

“Mmmhmmm (mouth full, reaching for a second one).”

“Hey! We need to bring these to my brother’s house tomorrow!”

“Well, they shouldn’t be in arms reach then.”

~ by nicoleantoinette on December 8, 2007.