Not that I plan to eat any of them. In fact the thought is so nauseating that at this moment I am feeling sick to my stomach.
No, I am not pregnant. (Why is that the first thing you people presume?) This actually happens every single year. Every. Single. Year.
I never, ever make it to the cookies. I only make it to the dough. Which is why I feel disgustingly ill at this moment.
You would think that I would learn. I mean, how old am I? (Don’t answer that.)
For whatever reason, each year I manage to devour 103 pounds of cookie dough before a single cookie ever makes it out of the oven.
Perhaps if I MADE the cookie dough it wouldn’t be so appealing. (Due to my lack of culinary skills.) Yeah. That luscious, scrumptious, yummy, homemade cookie dough is not even mine. It is actually my mother’s.
You see, for the past couple of years my mother has been delivering frozen cookie dough to me. Why? Apparently she is afraid of the consequences of JENNIEINTHEKITCHEN.
It must petrify her to the point that she goes through the trouble of creating pounds of cookie dough from scratch and portioning it out into freezer bags for my holiday usage.
For the record… I never really thought I was THAT bad at cookie making.
You follow directions. You measure it out. You cook it. Not hard.
Yet, apparently, frightening to my mother.