Sunday, February 22, 2009
Oh! Oh, wow. This is all just too much! No, please sit down, Sean Penn. A standing ovation is not necessary. First, I would like to thank the Academy. This is such an honor. I’m just a humble farm girl from Kansas who took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and ended up walking right into the middle of an audition for “Kill or Be Killed” starring Meryl Streep and Tom Hanks. After the security guards frisked me several times, I was allowed to audition for a small role. My audition, if I do say so myself, was impeccable. I was given the starring role instead, and Meryl Streep was given the role of my chambermaid. She was a good sport about it. (Weren’t you, Meryl? Weren’t you? That’s a good Meryl Streep.) I was immediately whisked away to the wilds of Canada to begin shooting the film. I was given my own trailer and an unlimited supply of Dexatrim, because when you become a movie star unexpectedly, you have to start watching your figure. It was like living in a dream. Eight months later, I returned to the states. I attended the movie premiere on the arm of Jude Law and had my first movie star cat fight later that night with Sienna Miller, who happened to be hiding in the bushes with a broken vodka bottle. When the Academy Award nominations were announced, I thought surely I wouldn’t win. Look who I’m up against! Susan Sarandon...Annette Bening...Kathy Bates...Judi Dench. Hey, she just gave me the finger. But now that I have won, I know that I deserve it. So, thank you to everyone who believed in me. Mom, Dad, What’s-her-name, that guy who waxes my car, Steven Spielberg, those producer guys, my boyfriend Adrien Brody, and my plastic surgeon for these fabulous Hollywood lips. Keep living the dream, and someday you can be up here, too! Thank you.
When I started this blog, it was a baking blog wherein I made light of my very infrequent baking disasters and rubbed the noses of the baking inept in my many triumphs. I then giggled merrily at the very idea of someone less awesome than I even thinking about mixing flour, sugar, salt, some leavening agent, and various other ingredients together and assuming that it would be anywhere near as delicious as anything I would bake.
Let's face it, people. I consider myself above you when it comes to baking. I mean, how could I not after that time a very dear friend threw her panties at me after tasting my chocolate chip pumpkin bars? Or the time a stranger on the street stopped me and told me that my oatmeal raisin cookies made his son see again after a lifetime of blindness? Or that other time when Martha Stewart herself called me and demanded that I hang up my apron and stop baking my poppy seed cake, lest I put people like her out of business with my amazingness?
There is just something special about the way I bake things that makes me better than you. I know it's hard to wrap your mind around it, dear reader, so don't try. Just know that when I die, my headstone will be shaped like angels weeping as they taste a tiny nibble of my famous snickerdoodles. Even in death, I will be better than you at baking.
Therefore, I consider it nothing short of a tragedy that I cannot use the brand-new oven in my apartment. You see, I have no gas. And while people suffering from chronic flatulence might misinterpret that call it a miracle, I can tell you that it's no miracle to not have gas. It's more like having a landlord who tells you that you can move in because everything is working and then realizing that "everything" doesn't include the stove because your landlord is a stupid head. Or something similar. (It's very hard to write metaphors when you live on a steady diet of microwaved omelets, microwaved turkey burgers, and microwaved quesadillas.) I've also heard that too many microwaved foods gives you an inflated ego, but I don't know if it's true.
Baking is more to me than just creating something that people eat and then watching them eat it. It's therapeutic. It's comforting. And it's how I get through the winter. Long story short, when you have mad baking skills, a brand-new oven, and no gas with which to power it, it's hard to get through February (my least favorite month ever) without going nutballs.
And considering that the oven in my previous apartment smelled like mouse piss and burned hair, I have done almost no baking at all this winter. No wonder I'm losing my mind.
So, I guess the point of this blog post is not to be particularly amusing or entertaining. Or even interesting. But to talk about how much I hate my landlord right now and get it all off my chest.