Tag Archives: chocolate

I Won’t Bake Chocolate Chip Cookies

If you have to be good at something, be a big fish in a small pond. Instead of trying to create a large impact, make a unique impact.

What’s the best kind of beer?

Basic garbage humans will sing the praises of Bud Light, 30-somethings get nostalgic when they see a Corona, poor and/or ugly people claim to like Coors Light, Europhiles are into Guinness, and every man on the brink of a midlife crisis is in love with one craft beer or another. Oh, and my mother drinks O’Doul’s because she says she enjoys the taste.

The point here is that people have different preferences, whether they’re weird (Corona), gross (Bud Light), or wrong (O’Doul’s). The same holds true for chocolate chip cookies. People prefer different types of chocolate chip cookies:  weird (with pecans), gross (with dark chocolate chips), or wrong (crunchy cookies).

Trying to make a universally loved chocolate chip cookie is an exercise in futility. The mere fact that people have all of these silly preferences means that you can’t make everyone happy all the time.

You want a cookie? I’ll bake you a batch of soft, melt-in-your-mouth, sea salt caramel cookies. I’ll create some blueberry white chocolate oatmeal cookies. I’ll make some butterscotch cookies you’ll never forget.

I’m not saying that unique = awesome, but I will say that giving people something unexpected rather than just giving them your version of the “best” of something ordinary may just pay big dividends in the long run.


Cuckoo for Cocoa

If you have to get all stupid when chocolate candy (cake, brownies, cookies, etc.) come around, please keep your disgustingly overenthusiastic comments and groans(!!!) to yourself.

There is nothing grosser than people (okay, women) who extol the virtues of chocolate. You know the ones. They start salivating when they see the Hershey’s Kisses. They can’t not walk into the Godiva store in the mall. They have a seemingly endless supply of fun-sized candy bars in their purses. Their eyes glaze over when someone brings a double chocolate fudge cake to the office for Fran’s birthday party.

Picture Bertha digging into a Russell Stover sampler box with her pudgy fingers while saying, “Mmm… *glarf* *glarf* [groan] Thiff chawcolit cairmel is better than sex!” Her eyes roll back in her skull and she starts panting heavily.

Guess what, Bertha…
1) Chocolate is not better than sex.
1a) You’re obviously doing sex wrong, or it’s been so long for you that you simply can’t remember.
1b) No one wants to hear you say the word “sex.” Ever.
2) You might need to break the sugar habit.
3) Consider losing a few. (Sorry.)

Perhaps worse than Bertha? Anorexic Kaylee. This beeatch acts like one M&M will throw off the rotation of the earth and propel her directly into Bertha-dom. She HAS to have it, but not until after she spends six. hours. talking about how incredible it was that one time in college when she binge-ate almost half a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. To be sure, she’ll eat the M&M, but then she’ll spend the next three and a half weeks in the gym–so then you’ll have to hear about that through the cubicle wall, about how it was “totes worth it,” and about how she’s thinking about snorting Nestle’s Quik powder so she can really get a chocolate fix omg lol jk no rly.

Chocolate is okay, I guess, but it ain’t that great, ladies. Tone it down.

Disgruntled in December

If you have to be filled with the holiday spirit, would you please keep it inside until you just explode into a cloud of glitter that sings the Bing Crosby versions of everyone’s favorite carols?

I won’t say I hate Christmas. I really don’t. I just hate virtually every single thing that goes along with it. I saw a woman with a Santa hat in a restaurant the other day, and even though it had “Bah Humbug” embroidered on it, I wanted to punch her in the face. I hate cold weather and Christmas cookies and chocolate and snow and ice and carols played obnoxiously loudly in the mall. I hate long lines at grocery stores and those ridiculous reindeer antlers people put on their cars and peppermint everything and feeling obligated to get gifts for coworkers who never give anything back. I hate that I can’t say “merry Christmas” (or even “happy holidays” anymore) without sounding racist or religionist or pissing off some stupid atheists. I hate the obligatory workplace potluck where women are expected to bring enormous crock pots full of meaty goodness, but then they’re judged if they eat anything more than two small servings of salad and one tiny piece of ham. I hate that church services in December have to have a watered-down, peppermint-scented, jazz flute-filled message in order to appeal to the masses. I hate that Diet Coke cans have snowflakes on them for six straight weeks. I hate ugly Christmas sweaters and the people who wear them. I hate that I can only buy decent summer sausage (irony?) in December. I hate the huge holiday group texts that people send in place of actual sentiment. I hate that people only remember to be nice to other people when they think that Santa is watching in the last 1/12th of the year. I hate that people will eat like it’s a sport all through December and then magically rediscover physical fitness on January 1st and I’ll have to tolerate weight loss challenges and thinspiration quotes and stupid interactions (omg Jessica we totes have to go to crossfit on Monday fo realz lol no rly).

*sigh* I like some stuff, I guess…

What do I like? Glitter. Sparkles. Christmas trees. I like watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation until I can’t stand it anymore. I like the previously-mentioned (and stupidly-named) summer sausage. I like fires in fireplaces and warm blankets and whipped cream all over everything. I like candles and fuzzy socks and all of the sales that start on December 26th. I like being the only customer shopping on New Year’s Day because all of you idiots are hung over at home.

Most of all, however, I like that December is only one month long. So merry Christmas or happy holidays or have a pleasant winter or whatever, I guess.