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Everyone is entitled to a grump day. Your boss pissing you off? Happens too often, I’m sure. Significant other being pissy? Smack him (never her!) on the back of the head and say “wtf, jack?” Currently, my “looks like a chipmunk with a gland problem” tabby, Parker, is attempting to knock as many things off my desk as possible, in the search for treats- as though she actually needs MORE treats. You can’t explain to her that treats are why she looks like she has severe hypothyroidism (she is a cat, after all, and last I checked, their grasp on English? not so great.) Why am I all grump-ified today? I have a wisdom tooth giving me hell, and it’s causing my jaw and head to hurt like eff. It sucks. So today is my official grump day (at least for this week.) And here’s how it’s going down:

Cookies- Since I still have a stash of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough, my fat happy ass is going to cookie it up. I will likely still be a bit pissy after a stack of warm cookie and a glass of moo juice, but you can’t say I didn’t try.

Books and Magazines- It’s time to lay down, pretend that I have a huge, fluffy down comforter, tons of pillows, and a personal masseuse. Until then, I will lay back on my new bed (thank you, Bribles!), bust out Glamour and various cookbooks, and take my mind off my barking jaw- by planning a day after Thanksgiving and Christmas meal of some sort menus. And which cookies I’ll be making this holiday season. Seriously, people, it’s all about the cookies.

Nap time- Reading in bed makes me sleepy. That’s why I do it. Enough said.

After several hours of cookies, planning, and naps, it will be time to make dinner. Thankfully, I planned ahead, and have all the ingredients for stir fry on hand. If only I had a kick-ass recipe for crab meat and cream chee wontons. That just might make the rest of my week better, tooth pain be damned. So, for your Grump day, do what pleases you (well, as long as it’s legal; don’t beat down my door if you got snookered and drove a go-cart into a fountain b/c it makes you happy- I’d suggest drinking at home and playing Mario Cart, but that’s just me.) Eat cookies. Order too much pizza. Look at magazines and think of all those ridiculous clothes you would never wear and can’t afford, anyway. Volunteer at an animal shelter. Which brings me to my final point- I would have fewer grump days if I had a certain Dachshund/Poodle mix named Goldie from a local shelter. That dog has me written all over her. I even have her fall wardrobe picked out (lots of herringbone sweaters in red, white, black- and of course pink.) So, I’m working on getting into dog ownership, as it’s been two years since my sweetie Siobhan passed. Dogs rule. David Duchovny wouldn’t lie. And dogs are the all-time, number one fix for Grump day. If nothing else, they can provide the fuel for a little gift to leave on your boss’ doorstep.

We all experience cravings at some point. For some of us, nothing gets the job done quite like chocolate. It’s sweet and perfect on it’s own, but pairs so well with creamy, salty, toasty….almost any flavor. And when you want it, nothing else will do. I had one of these days last week. I was going through my typical daily routine of random distraction, not cleaning or doing the laundry as I should have. A favorite memory from my childhood flooded my brain- a cookie making party my mom had when I was about 5. She’d invited several of my cousins, and even let my brother (who was the family klutz at that time, not to mention, only three years old) help. I have a picture of all of us around the kitchen table in my scrapbook. It was a happy, messy day, as evidenced by all the flour covering the six of us. I think this was the first time I ever helped make Toll House cookies. And certainly the first time I had my first spoonful of chocolate chip cookie dough.

The memory sparked a craving, one that I hadn’t had since late December. I wanted fresh-from-the-oven, gooey, chocolaty cookies. Made from scratch.

I usually have all the common baking ingredients on hand- flour, sugar, eggs, etc. Even real butter. This day was no exception. All I needed were the chocolate chips. So I had to convince the Bribles that A) he wanted fresh cookies, too, and B) the only thing he needed to pick up that evening was a bag of milk chocolate chips. He happily obliged. And what he came home with was nothing short of shocking. The only request I had was they be milk chocolate. What came happily through my door was not at all what I expected. It was so much better. Ghiradelli. Not that I’m some chocolate snob- if it’s sweet, brown, sold in the candy or baking aisle, I’m all for it. My palate may not be that well refined, but I know what I like. And I can’t say I have one go-to recipe for these particular cookies. Usually, whatever’s on the back of the chip bag is good enough. They are, after all, just some combination of the same ingredients. This recipe didn’t seem like any exception. The dough tasted right. (Note: I love cookie dough…maybe more than the cookies, but raw egg strains the relationship.) I whipped out my melon baller, which I recommend for all drop cookies, and got to dropping dough. I think I actually hit the suggested yield according to the recipe, which was a first (so, if you are one who likes to bake cookies, get a melon baller!) Pop them in the oven, and eleven minutes later, they came out, the most perfectly shaped chocolate chip cookies I’d ever made. Once cooled sufficiently, about 5.8 seconds, I started the nibbling. It had the perfect chewy-crunchy texture. Of course, it was warm, and the chips just melt-y enough (they are actually larger than the chips I am used to) to make me need to sit down for a minute. Then I had another, then two more. Craving satisfied. But the best reaction of all came from Bribles, who upon first taste exclaimed “I think these are the best cookies I’ve ever tasted!” They were all gone the next night. Which was also when we decided the only logical step was to get more chips. Only this time, freeze the dough, so we can have fresh cookies when we want. Because you never know when the craving may hit.

Is not my thing. Since I was a kid, I have had either a problem or just a fascination with not doing things in exactly the manner they were “supposed” to be done. Once in kindergarten,  we were all given a leaf to color. The teacher (supposedly, I was in the bathroom at this point), told everyone to color them green. I return to my seat, see everyone around me filling theirs in with green crayon, and decide mine will be red. I have nothing against the color green. It’s a lovely color and an admirable way to live. I just thought that that sea of green could use a bit of livening up. So, after I’d chosen the perfect red (not red-violet, that shouldn’t even be a crayon, yuck), my nearest classmate goes “Ooooh, we’re s’posed to make them green!” She tells the teacher. The teacher informs me that there are only enough for everyone to have one, and next time, I’d better FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS. Granted, I can’t follow directions I haven’t heard, but 23 kids with green leaves should have tipped me off. And as for tattletale, she wound up with Play-doh in her hair a few weeks later. I was caught and served one of the dreaded “frowny-face” papers to take to my parents, I guess to shame me into better behavior next time. It wound up in the trash the minute I got off the bus (so, directions be damned). And tattletale didn’t find out about the “Play-doh Incident of ‘86″ until about ‘93.

I credit my mother with my unwillingness to go with the flow. She would say “different is good, different is best, different doesn’t wind up pregnant at sixteen!” And so, I was different. Taller and chubbier than all the other kids (not that I could help most of that), wearing clothes unlike everyone elses’ (much to my “be different!” mother’s chagrin), and quieter than everyone in my family. I am different, whatever that may mean. To me it’s being myself, the self that both loves and hates getting up really early in the morning, the me that tweaks recipes until maybe they are truly “mine,” and the me that is constantly accused of grandmotherly-slow driving by anyone lucky enough to ride with my slow ass. Which is all fine and good, but not really why I’m here. I do think it is a good bit of info about myself to share with others, because it is a key part of my personality and why I do the things I do, and why I do them the way(s) I do. So now I’m off to the kitchen, to decide whether I should clean it up before I make some brown sugar cupcakes, or just add to the mess. Knowing me, I’ll opt to clean the larger mess later. Just don’t tell my mom I swept before I wiped off the counters and table. That always bugged her.