I was supposed to sell cookie dough as a fundraiser for Lucy's school. The first year I bought a bunch of it because I had a new baby and was too lethargic to peddle it to anyone else. The second year I sold so much of it I had to use the upstairs and downstairs freezers to house it until I could deliver it all. This year I failed completely and finally threw away the empty order form - three weeks after it was due.
But really, it can stay in your refrigerator for 6 months without going bad. What's in it, kryptonite?
I overlooked this the first year because, as I said, I was too lethargic to do much of anything and taking freshly baked kryptonite-laced cookies to all those Christmas parties was way better than showing up empty handed or (heaven forfend) staying home.
The next year was pretty easy because I cannot keep a secret and told everyone at the parties what I had done and they then heckled me for a year asking for cookie dough.
And now there is this year and I'm on a baking jag. Not all of it is edible, but I do know what's in it and doesn't that count for something?
I am on a baking jag because I made our friend Randy some completely horrible peanut butter cookies in return for a favor he did. They were not intentionally horrible, although yes, there are some favors that warrant horrible cookies. This wasn't one of them.
I wanted to make another, less horrible, replacement batch and as I pondered peanut butter cookies I remembered some cookies my mom used to make. They were peanut butter, chocolate, oatmeal cookies and you didn't bake them.
I asked her how to make them one afternoon and she pulled out a stack of recipe cards to sort through. It took a few hours, because every one of those cards had a story. Many of them had two - hers and mine. I remember making some of those recipes when I was a kid. I remember the cookies whose names I mixed up and she'd make me what I asked for except it wasn't what I wanted. I did it over and over again and I still can't think of the correct name.
I remember making cookies with my sister and eating entire batches of dough. And not once did we die of food poisoning.
I'm not sure I'd trust the shelf-stable version not to kill me.
Besides, when Lucy grows up and asks a friend to take her daughter to a birthday party because she quadruple-booked herself, I want her to be able to make some decent cookies for him. And I don't want her to have to email me and say - "hey mom, where'd you order those cookies from? You know, the ones you always used to take to parties."