To my dear friend, Dawn Edgerton:
For ten years, it has been an unsolved mystery. But not anymore.
When I was in fourth or fifth grade, one of my best friends—Dawn Edgerton—moved to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Well, we weren’t really best friends, but pretty good ones. At least before third grade.
In third grade, Dawn became best friends with Brooke Bontz because she was really good at soccer. Naturally, being the insecure, acceptance-seeking third-grader that I was, I did everything I could to ensure that both Dawn and Brooke would like me.
I read every Roald Dahl book I could get my hands on (because THEY thought Roald Dahl was cool) and had my mom buy me nylon athletic pants so I could look like all the other girls who played on Arsenal Soccer. Offense #1: the pants were pink—not black—much to Dawn’s disgust. Oh, and they weren’t Adidas either. I think we got them at SteinMart. Offense #2.
Predictably, these attempts merely succeeded at annoying both Brooke and Dawn and making them reject me all the more vehemently.
Despite all of my pathetic efforts for peer acceptance, somehow, some way, when Dawn moved out of town we became friends again (looking back, I think I should have been insulted by that). Since my dad worked up in Cheyenne every Monday during the summer, he would take me up with him, drop me off at Dawn’s, and we would play till he picked me up again later in the afternoon. Thus was the beginning of the FOBFFC—the Far-Off But Forever Friends Club. We vowed to write each other a letter once a week, and if you didn’t, you owed the other person fifty cents.
It was in her bedroom on those summer Mondays that I was introduced to the Backstreet Boys, Kid Rock and Boyz II Men. And shaving my legs. My mom said I was too young to start, so I always did it at Dawn’s house with her Sensor Excel. It was pink.
We painted fingernails and talked about boys. Sometimes we went to the park. But mostly, we played Crash Bandicoot: Warped.
Crash Bandicoot: Warped! On the FIRST Playstation. Not II. Not III. Not PSP. I remember the glory days when we would win 30 lives on the Oriental Express, and then use them all to beat Dingodile. One time we got SO close to beating the final boss. Lasers were involved . . . hop over one, duck under another, etc. When we were about to run out of lives, back to the Oriental Express we went. That day, we played Crash Bandicoot for EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT. I’m not kidding. We sat our little 10-year old butts down on her living room carpet as soon as I got dropped off, and didn’t get up till my dad picked me up at 5:00. That, my friends, is stamina. Our thumbs were arthritic. Our eyeballs burned. Our backs, in their primate-esque arches, ached like never before. But on we played.
The next time we got together, Dawn and I decided to swear off CB for that day. This oath, of course, lasted a mere two hours, but what we did with that time I’ll never forget: we baked chocolate chip cookies together. Erm, excuse me, TRIED to bake chocolate chip cookies. Each batch we made came out looking a little, oh, how you say, abnormal? Bizarre? Grotesque? The batter oozed out all across the cookie sheet in a flat plane with the chocolate chips poking up like tiny mountains. We tried the recipe multiple times—reading and re-reading every line, measuring with accuracy that would put to shame those people at amusement parks who write your name on a grain of rice—yet our results remained constant. To this day, we don’t know what went wrong.
But it was okay. Crash Bandicoot awaited.
Fast forward ten years.
The other day, I bought vinyl lettering to place on a wall in my kitchen: a cute little quote that reads “Cooking is love made visible.” Tender, I know. After putting it up above my oven, I decided to "make some love" and bake cookies as a thank-you for a friend. Given the message of the quote, I figured my first baking attempt under it would be a blessed one.
I turn on the iPod and begin mixing, stirring, and beating to the sounds of the Huey Lewis and Madeleine Peyroux. In the past, I’ve had mouthwatering results with this particular recipe for chocolate peanut butter chip cookies.
Pop ‘em in the oven. 350° for eight minutes. After four minutes, I take a peek inside . . .
Wait, they didn’t look like this the last time I made them, did they? The “cookies” have oozed out in goopy blobs. With the peanut butter chips poking up like tiny mountains. Hmmm.
Not to worry! I try again. Double-check the recipe . . . did I do everything right? Yes. Oh! There it is! I greased the cookie sheet when I wasn’t supposed to. That must be the reason why they’re spreading so much.
I grab another (ungreased) cookie sheet and throw in another batch.
Same oozing batter. Same tiny peanut butter mountains.
A teaspoon of baking powder. Yes, THAT'S what they need. THAT's what will make them rise.
Nope.
After the third failed batch, I decided it was time to stop fighting and accept the truth: I am under the Ten-Year Cookie Curse.
There’s no other explicable reason as to why—especially under my new vinyl lettering!—this particular recipe for cookies failed so miserably. I've made them before with much success! Not only that, but these “cookies” looked eerily reminiscent of the “cookies” Dawn and I made ten years ago. Coincidence? I think not.
So Dawn: not to worry. It was not your baking skills that were lacking in that sweltering summer of 1998, but merely your choice of kitchen partner. However, I do have another decade before the Ten-Year Cookie Curse strikes again, so if you ever need a bakingmate, you know who to call.
Just steer clear of me in 2018.
Your Far-Off But Forever Friend,
Kristi
For ten years, it has been an unsolved mystery. But not anymore.
When I was in fourth or fifth grade, one of my best friends—Dawn Edgerton—moved to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Well, we weren’t really best friends, but pretty good ones. At least before third grade.
In third grade, Dawn became best friends with Brooke Bontz because she was really good at soccer. Naturally, being the insecure, acceptance-seeking third-grader that I was, I did everything I could to ensure that both Dawn and Brooke would like me.
I read every Roald Dahl book I could get my hands on (because THEY thought Roald Dahl was cool) and had my mom buy me nylon athletic pants so I could look like all the other girls who played on Arsenal Soccer. Offense #1: the pants were pink—not black—much to Dawn’s disgust. Oh, and they weren’t Adidas either. I think we got them at SteinMart. Offense #2.
Predictably, these attempts merely succeeded at annoying both Brooke and Dawn and making them reject me all the more vehemently.
Despite all of my pathetic efforts for peer acceptance, somehow, some way, when Dawn moved out of town we became friends again (looking back, I think I should have been insulted by that). Since my dad worked up in Cheyenne every Monday during the summer, he would take me up with him, drop me off at Dawn’s, and we would play till he picked me up again later in the afternoon. Thus was the beginning of the FOBFFC—the Far-Off But Forever Friends Club. We vowed to write each other a letter once a week, and if you didn’t, you owed the other person fifty cents.
It was in her bedroom on those summer Mondays that I was introduced to the Backstreet Boys, Kid Rock and Boyz II Men. And shaving my legs. My mom said I was too young to start, so I always did it at Dawn’s house with her Sensor Excel. It was pink.
We painted fingernails and talked about boys. Sometimes we went to the park. But mostly, we played Crash Bandicoot: Warped.
Crash Bandicoot: Warped! On the FIRST Playstation. Not II. Not III. Not PSP. I remember the glory days when we would win 30 lives on the Oriental Express, and then use them all to beat Dingodile. One time we got SO close to beating the final boss. Lasers were involved . . . hop over one, duck under another, etc. When we were about to run out of lives, back to the Oriental Express we went. That day, we played Crash Bandicoot for EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT. I’m not kidding. We sat our little 10-year old butts down on her living room carpet as soon as I got dropped off, and didn’t get up till my dad picked me up at 5:00. That, my friends, is stamina. Our thumbs were arthritic. Our eyeballs burned. Our backs, in their primate-esque arches, ached like never before. But on we played.
The next time we got together, Dawn and I decided to swear off CB for that day. This oath, of course, lasted a mere two hours, but what we did with that time I’ll never forget: we baked chocolate chip cookies together. Erm, excuse me, TRIED to bake chocolate chip cookies. Each batch we made came out looking a little, oh, how you say, abnormal? Bizarre? Grotesque? The batter oozed out all across the cookie sheet in a flat plane with the chocolate chips poking up like tiny mountains. We tried the recipe multiple times—reading and re-reading every line, measuring with accuracy that would put to shame those people at amusement parks who write your name on a grain of rice—yet our results remained constant. To this day, we don’t know what went wrong.
But it was okay. Crash Bandicoot awaited.
Fast forward ten years.
The other day, I bought vinyl lettering to place on a wall in my kitchen: a cute little quote that reads “Cooking is love made visible.” Tender, I know. After putting it up above my oven, I decided to "make some love" and bake cookies as a thank-you for a friend. Given the message of the quote, I figured my first baking attempt under it would be a blessed one.
I turn on the iPod and begin mixing, stirring, and beating to the sounds of the Huey Lewis and Madeleine Peyroux. In the past, I’ve had mouthwatering results with this particular recipe for chocolate peanut butter chip cookies.
Pop ‘em in the oven. 350° for eight minutes. After four minutes, I take a peek inside . . .
Wait, they didn’t look like this the last time I made them, did they? The “cookies” have oozed out in goopy blobs. With the peanut butter chips poking up like tiny mountains. Hmmm.
Not to worry! I try again. Double-check the recipe . . . did I do everything right? Yes. Oh! There it is! I greased the cookie sheet when I wasn’t supposed to. That must be the reason why they’re spreading so much.
I grab another (ungreased) cookie sheet and throw in another batch.
Same oozing batter. Same tiny peanut butter mountains.
A teaspoon of baking powder. Yes, THAT'S what they need. THAT's what will make them rise.
Nope.
After the third failed batch, I decided it was time to stop fighting and accept the truth: I am under the Ten-Year Cookie Curse.
There’s no other explicable reason as to why—especially under my new vinyl lettering!—this particular recipe for cookies failed so miserably. I've made them before with much success! Not only that, but these “cookies” looked eerily reminiscent of the “cookies” Dawn and I made ten years ago. Coincidence? I think not.
So Dawn: not to worry. It was not your baking skills that were lacking in that sweltering summer of 1998, but merely your choice of kitchen partner. However, I do have another decade before the Ten-Year Cookie Curse strikes again, so if you ever need a bakingmate, you know who to call.
Just steer clear of me in 2018.
Your Far-Off But Forever Friend,
Kristi
Failed batch #1. Sadly, the best looking out of all of them.
Failed batch #2 or #3. I forget. Noticeably flatter. Not happy.
In that case, my love is NASTY and completely undesirable.
Sorry Brock.
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