How I Fail at Exercising Feminine Wiles

Since I began taking up weekend residence at Army Boy’s bachelor pad, I’ve been attempting to become more of a useful member of relationship society.

Translation: I am learning to cook.

Wait, let me explain!!! I know, it’s totally pathetic for a 26-year-old woman to just be taking her first forays into the culinary world. But I am a SPOILED ONLY CHILD 26-year-old woman. Who lives at home still.  Whose previous adventures into “cooking” included boiling and heating. Whose mother is an amazing cook and has thus had no reason to learn to prepare meals more advanced than Things That Cook in the Microwave.

That doesn’t make it any better. Shit. Stop judging me. Stop-stop-stop.

(I still feel you judging!)

It’s been fun, not to mention romantic taking my culinary first steps with Army Boy. We cook together- he’s a pro at all things chopping/grating/slicing, which leaves me free to concentrating on heating/stirring/not burning. So far we’ve tackled recipes from Giada DiLaurentiis and Ina Garten (baked mac and cheese- AWESOME).

Another lesson I’ve learned? Always have a contingency plan.

Like, keep the local pizza joint’s number handy. Or make a large salad.

The best idea: Make dessert. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Especially when at The Bachelor Pad, the basic comfort foods are awesome. Brownies, Cookies.

One small problem: It is The Bachelor Pad.

Meaning that they do not have an electric mixer. Of any kind. Which basically gives my cooking aspirations The Finger. Do you know how many delicious baking recipes do not call for a mixer?

Approximately None.

Recipes that involve me cheating in order to attain a delicious result? Lots. And they all come in boxes from my dear friends Betty Crocker, Duncan Hines, and Toll House.

If I were intelligent, I would not cheat and use these methods. I would abstain from baking of any kind until someone (AB, cough cough) went out and got me an electric mixer. It doesn’t need to be fancy. It certainly doesn’t need to be a KitchenAid 5-quart stand mixer which I am SO lusting after in I-don’t-even-care-what-color-there-are-so-many-squee!

I have never claimed to be remotely intelligent. Especially after last weekend of being a lazy-whiny-jerk with the Never Ending Headache of Doom and Scorn and Pestilence, I felt that I owed Army Boy and his brother something a little nicer than the total copout comfort food (ie Kraft Macaroni) that we ended up eating Saturday night.

My solution? Toll House Cookies. Because duh.

While at the grocery store Sunday, I picked up a bag of Toll House chocolate chips, checking to make sure that the tried-and-true recipe was still on the bag, and got ready to add it to the cart when D’OH REQUIRES MIXER CRAP.

So much for that idea. Or WAS it?

The geniuses at Cookie Heaven have created refrigerated, break-apart cookie dough that is so easy, even left-handed people with no culinary experience (re: ME) can make perfect cookies in 20 mins. Which is exactly what I did.

The Bachelor Pad smelled divine.

I got a txt the next morning about how perfectly chewy and delicious they were. I may or may not have packed one in my lunch Monday. And they ARE perfectly chewy and delicious.

The Problem: If the break-apart cookies are that great, there is NO INCENTIVE for me to have my own mixer to make my own cookies from scratch!!! Totally counterproductive!!! What didn’t I THINK of that?! I should have bought something totally rancid and made little balls of baked POOOOO that weren’t remotely appetizing so that AB would be forced to indulge my kitchen fantasies. (I KNOW I could just buy one for myself but that doesn’t give me anything to bitch blog about. DUH.)

Devious Womanly Moment: FAIL.

How do you get what YOU want, Internet?

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One thought on “How I Fail at Exercising Feminine Wiles

  1. There will be no judging from me. I’m 31, have been married for just over 4 years and have been cohabitating for almost 6 and I do not know how to cook. I mean, I probably could if I tried. Follow a receipe. But as far as knowing how to be a GOOD cook. Nope. I can count on one hand the number of meals I have cooked and still have fingers left over. The Mr. cooks when we eat at home. We’re one of those couples that eating in is the anomale as opposed to eating out.

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