Don’t be fooled by the two ingredients in the name, these babies cook up with a sweet, buttery flavor and just a hint of cornbread goodness. This is the perfect cookie to ween you off the daily sugar showers you took through the month of December.
Last weekend, a crazed arsonist terrorized the streets of Hollywood, igniting over 50 fires all over town in the span of three nights, and causing over 2 million dollars in damage.
Here are five things I learned from the experience, followed by a recipe for cookies.
1.) I probably am not the person to contact in case of emergency, especially if I don’t know you.
MG called me at 4 in the morning last Saturday to tell me he’d woken to the sounds of his neighbors screaming “Fire!” He looked out his bedroom window and saw the carport of the apartment building next to him engulfed in flames.
“Okay, what do you want me to do?” I asked — not in a snotty way, but because I actually did not know what I was supposed to do! Thankfully, he didn’t know what I was supposed to do either. Then there was about five seconds of awkward silence, like when you run out of pieces for your new IKEA credenza but there’s still a page and a half of assembly instructions left to go. Finally, I managed to come up with, “You need to get out of there!” Boy, the Red Cross really needs to put me on the payroll, don’t they? My split-second thinking would be an asset to any life-threatening crisis. Did MG actually need to hear this from me? Was he sitting there thinking, “Aw really? I was planning to just go back to bed. The fire is like twenty feet away, and if I can’t jump twenty feet, will a fire really be able to?”
Despite what the stickers on the elevator wall ask of me, I do not stay calm in a crisis. When I first heard the phone ring, I immediately panicked, the way one does when they hear the words, “I think we should run additional tests,” or “Now we’re going to go around and all say something interesting about ourselves.” Before I even picked up the phone I had the thought, “Please please please don’t be a number I recognize,” because at least then I’d be off the hook. If someone I actually know is calling me in the middle of the night, it’s probably going to require a level of cool-headedness I’ve never had to muster before. No one ever calls you in the middle of the night with good news. Even if your sister went into the delivery room and instead of giving birth to one baby, as the doctor had predicted, she gave birth to nine babies and a Cuisinart hand blender, everyone knows you wait until sunrise to spread the good word and invite people to omelettes.
If someone I don’t know is calling me at 4 am, while it’s true they may be in the process of getting mugged, going down in a plane, or choking on a chicken bone, what’s also true is that thankfully, it’s not my problem. That’s why you should always make sure you’re dialing a phone correctly, especially if it’s the middle of the night and your life is in jeopardy. Grandma may hop into her Yugo and speed over to your house with a pamphlet on the Heimlich Maneuver, but once I get my six pillows into their proper sleepy-time configuration, if you call me by mistake, you’re pretty much fucked.
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