I have a brownie batter problem. I'll drink it by the cup if you let me. I'll devour it in slurpy, uncontrolled gulps, I will. In a closet. Alone. I always tell myself it's the last time...
I entitled this post Batter Whore because I read a blog, Absolutely Narcissism (which is right up my alley, as you know). The blog said if you put "whore" in the title of your blog more people will read it. I'm conducting an experiment to see if it's true.
The Mormon Missionaries ate dinner at my house because I signed up on the Who-wants-to-feed-the Mormon-missionaries calendar. I'm doing that kind of thing now.
Grown-ups feed the missionaries. I'm practicing to be one. (A grown-up, that is.) I might even serve a mission when I get older. But only if they send me somewhere tropical so I can lay out in the latest Victoria's Secret bikini and sip virgin margaritas...
I made chicken and veggies and brown rice so they could eat all healthy-like. They are away from their Mammas, ya know.
I grilled them on what they eat for breakfast. POP TARTS and ROOT BEER! I have a hankerin' to take those boys over my knee and give 'em What For! A good whippin', THAT'S WHAT! Now, how are they gonna preach The Word properly on sugar and fizzy water?! Hmmm? HOW?
I fixed up a right nice meal for those boys. I know they work up quite an appetite getting doors slammed in their faces all day so I thought, perhaps I should include dessert... It's the least I can do...
Then I thought,
"Brownies. Ooooo baaatttter. BATTER UP! Here Batter, batter, batter! SWING! Batter's got a rubber arm! I shouldn't have brownies on a Wednesday night, because if I make a habit outta brownies on a random weekday I will have a random enormous bum-bum.
But it's been far too long since I've had a fix. Surely this once won't hurt. I can quit anytime I want!"
I made those brownies despite the threat of a gelatinous arse chasing me unceasingly. Despite my whorish addiction. It was a sacrifice. I assure you.
I tried to keep that batter from my lips. I TRIED! Why do you look at me with those accusing eyes?! Do you think I can't SEE you?
It pains me how you JUDGE ME! A wise man once said, Judge not the Brownie Batter Whore lest you too shall be judged about YOUR embarrassing nuances, which I will not divulge at this time because I don't want to shame you...
The same wise man said, If you have never licked a batter spoon cast the first stone.
My son and I fought over the spoon and bowl as we always do.
Eventually I decided he had become far too greedy. I sent him to his room to think about what he had done.
Then... OH THEN! We were ALONE! Just me and that chocolate delight. Mmmmmmm. I indulged in the sweetest euphoria known to woman. Sheer, unadulterated satisfaction in stainless steel bowl.
My husband came home. I felt guilty. I didn't know where to turn. I was shifty-eyed. Nervous. I began washing pots and pans and bowls with gusto. Destroy the evidence!
"How was your day?" he asked.
"Fine," the word was stiff with starch and guilt.
"What did you do today?"
"WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS ACCUSING ME OF THINGS I DIDN'T DO? DON'T YOU THINK I DESERVE A TREAT NOW AND THEN? BROWNIE BATTER APPRECIATES ME!"
He wrapped his arms around me and licked dried batter off my cheek.
I'm his little Batter Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore.
PS I didn't really send my son to his room. I told my lippy daughter to go to her room but she is a deft negotiator. She watched her fave show on TV instead. Yeah. Who's driving this ship, anyway?
