It was 11:30 PM. I knew it was a bad idea. Henry REALLY knew it was a bad idea. But there was a box of corn bread mix in the kitchen and I really wanted corn bread. Of course Henry was all, “Pendants or muffins, I can’t do both.” So I had the bright idea of baking that shit on my own while Henry toiled over resin at the dining room table.
The thing with Henry is that he acts like he’s whatever. Like, “Yeah go ahead, you do that; see if I care” but I KNOW that it KILLS him to hear me smashing shit around in the kitchen when there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. And then I had to ask him if vegetable oil and canola were the same and I could tell he wanted to march in, reclaim his kitchen, and whip up his own batch of delicate muffins from one of the yellowed index cards he keeps in a prized recipe box. But instead, he maintained a calm facade and continued making pendants while I raped and foraged the kitchen cabinets, scraped the top of my hand on a blender blade, and tried with little success to defend my eyeballs from imminent recipe-induced crossing. Recipes are only word problems in disguise, those fuckers.
After a lot of groaning, grunting, and “motherfuck”ing, I finally had all of my shitty batter (which unlike cake batter, does NOT taste good raw) doled out in what I hoped to be even allotments.
I was wrong.
Oh but don’t worry, the nasty taste of the muffins completely overrode the size discrepancies. Not even the hearty fistfuls of sugar I dumped on top, pre-baking, could mask the bland dryness of these assholes. Henry even slid his plate away with more than half a muffin remaining. And he opted for the runt of the batch to begin with.
This morning, I decided to mix up some honey butter to help combat the dryness and add some sweetness. I mean, I fucking DRENCHED these bastards in the shit and they were still nothing more than glorified Southern saliva-suckers. Chooch, bless his heart, he tried to eat half of one, but in the end he decided to be honest and said, “I can’t like these. They’re not delicious.”
Fuck baking. Though I am still determined to bake a pie this weekend. And I think I have just the recipe.
They look not that bad ,but something about the picture makes me wonder if they taste like that homemade salt play-doh stuff.
They were dry and bland, so maybe!
It’s like they grow in size from left to right. I’m excited about your pie.
I have no idea how that happened. They looked even when I dumped them in.
Ooh. Yuck. I mean Those Look Delicious!
Oh, Chooch! I guffawed at his declaration.
I can’t like cornbread anyway.
I made bacon and eggs when I came home from work one night last week at 1 am. Now I don’t feel as much like a crazy person. I should send you some jiffy mix. I think you just add water and eggs.
I do love the big, bigger, biggest photo. You should make Henry make a pendant out of it and I would rock the hell out of it.
I think cornbread recipes are hit or miss… they’re either yummy and sweet, or not. No worries if you feel like doing that again, just foodnetwork.com that shit up and check some of the reviews.
Love Chooch’s “They’re not delicious.” I miss that kid.
I love the word “Discrepancy”. You steal my heart. My heart is not free or for sale. It MUST be stolen.
I’m always happy to find people who dig words as much as I do!
So . . . wait. Is vegetable and canola oil the same?