Not Martha

Before we get too ahead of ourselves here, I would like to say that there is a web site called Not Martha somewhere (NotMartha.com perhaps?) and I am eternally sad that I wasn’t able to get that domain name.  Because really, if you’ve read this site ever at all, you’d know that Not Martha is pretty much my middle name, no matter how (incredibly) hard I try to be a domestic goddess.

Anyway, I have a new tale from the Not Martha files which so perfectly highlights what my mom affectionately calls my “Domestic Retardation”.  Retarded in the actual sense of the word: slow.  Not fast. Takes all day to fold napkins, simmers things in the crock pot for days, sets up for dinner parties weeks in advance because that’s how long it takes me to set the table.  That sort of thing.

Apparently, I am also a slow reader as well.  To wit:

I made some Amish Sugar Cookies last night (five dozen to be precise – two dozen of which should have been on their way to a certain someone down by the bay [a certain someone who is looking a little thinner lately, BT-Dub, and I don’t like it AT ALL] by now) (also, before you ask, I’m not sure what makes them Amish exactly.  I briefly thought about making them without the use of electricity or swear words, but then I had another thought which laughed in the face of that thought.  It laughed and then it said “No way in hell is THAT going to happen.  HA!”  And so I resorted back to my preferred baking M.O.: the oven and a healthy sprinkling of F-bombs when situationally appropriate.)
 
(Wow so much punctuation just happened there.  What’s going on? Where are we?)
 
Anyway, upon performing perfunctory perfection tests, ie, a little Quality Control, I realized a smallfunny thing:  my cookies needed a little more vanilla.  And by a little more, I do, in fact, mean, ANY vanilla at all in the whole mixture.  Because I had forgotten to put it in.  At all.  So.  There you have it.  No more cookies for me, no more cookies for Duncan, and a whole jar of slightly weird tasting cookies for the enjoyment and bemusement (“doesn’t she usually make good cookies?  What are these?  I think I’m going to be sick!  My head huuuuuuuuurts!”) of my cookie-loving coworkers.

 

So, so sad.  My great grandmother – she of the always full jar of beautiful, perfect spritzer cookies – is sighing deeply in her grave right now, muttering to herself, “What about all the times we baked together?”

Sorry, Nonie.  You were baking, I was eating.  Um, so what else is new?

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Filed under Family, Woe To Me

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