It all started with my husband seeing this post on making cookies in the waffle iron.
Photo from Lauren Chattman and www.finecooking.com
It looked cool and easy. We had a tub of white chocolate cookie dough in the fridge so it would be easy to try. We sprayed the iron with cooking spray and put in scoops of dough and waited. Then we opened the iron.
Let me go back a bit. Ever since I was a little girl I wanted it all: a husband, kids, white picket fence, Netflix subscription, crafts, a waffle iron… and not necessarily in that order. Until recently, I did have it all.
See? I did have it all.
If I had only stopped at the waffle iron. Alas, I had to have it. Not a moment has gone by that I haven’t cursed the day I first desired such an evil, seemingly inanimate object. Ha! Inanimate indeed. Ever seen “The Brave Little Toaster”? That’s a true story. There is no insurance policy that covers damage by waffle iron, as if there were an agency that could give me back my life, my family …my cookies.
If only I had seen the writing on the wall. There were signs! Clear signs. Why did I not heed the warnings? Everyone should know not to put cookie dough in a waffle iron! A waffle iron is only supposed to eat waffle batter, pancake batter in a pinch, but you don’t feed it cookie dough. Not if you value your life, your fence, Netflix. Imagine how you would feel if all you had ever known was bland viscous slop, then suddenly someone put white chocolate cookie dough in your mouth. What would you do? What if you were suddenly aware that you had been cheated out of everything that was good and buttery and chocolaty in the world and realized that all you would ever get again was slop. Wouldn’t you rebel? Wouldn’t you become violent? If you were a waffle iron, you would.
It happened to me and it can happen to you.
Photo sacrificed by Vone from howtodosomething.blogspot.ca