I’m torn. I want to write about this time we baked top secret brownies when I was in college, but I realized I haven’t written a post that has a list in it for a while. And I sure do love lists. Plus they’re easy to write, and I’m tired from getting up early to run this morning, so easy is good. Also, I want to write about foxhunting this past weekend. It was lovely. I feel like a whole person again when I get to spend my day with horses. But maybe I’ll write about that when I’m awake.
Wow. This post is all over the place.
If I was really clever, I could figure out some way to work a list into a blog post about the secret brownies. Let’s see if it happens before the end of the post; I’m in just as much suspense as you are.
I got a text the other night from my college roommate’s fiancé to inform me that they were making cheesecake brownies, and he felt guilty about eating half the pan without me there to eat the other half. I write about food at least 80 percent of the time, so it’s pretty obvious how much I love eating. But my whole social life pretty much revolved around food when I was in school. It’s a wonder I don’t resemble a small elephant today. Usually my social life consisted of eating alarmingly large amounts of unhealthy food inappropriately fast ridiculously late at night with my roommates. (Man, look at all those adverbs, what is up with my writing tonight?)
During one particular feast, my pancake eating got cut off because I had eaten six by the time Becca (the slowest eater among us) finished her first pancake. Needless to say, I was pleased when any one of the boyfriends came to visit because finally SOMEONE was going to make me look like less of a heathen by out eating me. Becca’s boyfriend (now fiancé) Mason, was best, because he liked food the most. And because we always got brownies when he came to visit.
We were so concerned about hoarding our food that we felt the need to make super secret brownies one time. Some friends were coming over, and we made brownies to share. The trouble with having people over though is that they often tend to eat food that you would really prefer to eat yourself. Like your brownies. But it’s impolite to tell them not to eat it, especially if you want to eat it while they’re visiting.
Come on, we all think things like this sometimes. Or maybe I’m just way more of a terrible person than I suspect.
Mason and I were so concerned about not having a half pan of brownies each (Becca only ever ate one or two, so she didn’t really count), that Becca suggested we make ANOTHER pan of brownies to eat between the three of us after our other friends left. Seriously, who does that?! I really am a heathen.
Our timing was a little off though, and we still had the second batch of brownies in the oven when our friends got there. So we had to finish baking the secret ones while everyone was in the kitchen. It was extremely nerve wracking. The smell would have given us away, except I think everyone just assumed the ones we were currently eating were extra fragrant or something.
Good lord, this story is beginning to sound like we were baking bodies in pies like Sweeny Todd. I’m too tired to be properly coherent. Don’t pay any attention.
Wait! A list! I was so hoping a list would show up before the end of this post. But it doesn’t seem to have worked its way in smoothly and subtly.
Well, here’s one anyway . . .
REASONS WHY I WOULD MAKE A TERRIBLE CELEBRITY (don’t ask me where this came from, as if I would know):
1) My mouth operates more quickly than my brain does, when a connection exists at all. I can’t imagine a worse situation than having people I don’t know hanging on my every word.
2) My eyes squint unevenly when I smile. It’s not obvious in real life, but I look like a real doofus in pictures.
3) I have a big nose. Based on most of the famous people I’m familiar with, this is generally not allowed.
4) I tend to burst into song and belt various Broadway musicals at inappropriate times.
5) Wearing cool looking shoes is not my thing. I really, seriously wish I could wear tennis shoes to work.