I followed the recipe precisely and everything still went wrong. Or rather, I followed parts of the recipe and made up the rest as I went along, and I was still surprised at the outcome. That’s how it goes, right? Food prep is one part process, one part improvisation, and a one part something else. I don’t know what that something else is, but it really sounded like there should be a third thing on that list. It’s that sort of disordered thinking that I bring not only to the kitchen, but into every aspect of my life.
I’m too fucking tired. You do the next bit. You’re me. Go.
The premix brownie packaging calls for 100 grams of butter, but you know you need to double that in order to absorb all the THC in the decarboxylated cannabis material you’ve been saving for the last few months. You don’t know how much there is, just that the jar is full to the point that the lid won’t close any more. You know from experience that when this happens, it’s the right amount to cook with.
(Except sometimes it’s not. You don’t know how, or why, but while the jar never changes size, the amount inside seems forever variable. What worked one time, does not work the next. But you know that life is chaos and control is an illusion, so you always go back to the recipe that you half made-up in your head.)
So you begin to melt some butter, about two thirds of a stick, because that’s what’s worked before. You know you should wait until the butter is completely melted, but you always get impatient and you dump the contents of the jar into the warming pot about half-way. You realise you have misjudged the ratio this time. Badly. You quickly find yourself adding more butter.
Still not enough, so you add more. And more again. Eventually, you’ve used the entire new stick, plus what little was left from the last lot. That’s over 300 grams of full fat butter, if you’re counting at home (I wouldn’t). Finally you achieve a stir-able liquid rather than pungent green mush.
Alright, switch places again. I’m back.
So it all worked out, right? Because of that improvisation thing I mentioned. You know. In the first paragraph? Whatever. Because I’m such a very stable genius and this all makes perfect sense… And that third thing? It turned out to be extra flour. You know, to help absorb all that fucking butter.
So then came a whole bunch more boring stuff. The hours of stirring, the straining, the mixing, the baking. It all happened but you don’t need to see it, do you? Dull as dishwater. I can’t believe there are people who actually enjoy cooking? Or worse, reading about cooking? Like, just vicariously picturing someone else as they remember cooking. Not actually cooking, just… imagining it. BORING. FUCKING. ASSHOLE.
You fell asleep for two hours after shouting at your readers.
Oh, I see. Well, there was a point to all of this. And sorry for yelling, it’s been an emotional day.
Just wrap it up. You were talking about baking?
Oh yes. I baked some stuff. Or did you do it? I’m not sure anymore.
The punchline, mate.
Oh yes, the punchline. I was trying to make cannabis brownies but they turned out to be sadness cakes. Womp-womp. You feel me? In my fucking kitchen, in my fucking flat, I achieved the impossible. I created a paradox that should obliterate the known universe with it’s sheer perversity. I made chocolate into misery.
These brownies don’t make you ‘get high’, they freeze you in one place for hours while a nameless demonic entity loudly narrates the mental equivalent of your own personal blooper reel, complete with a cut-in laugh track and cartoon sound effects on playbacks. And indigestion (see above). And they didn’t help my disordered though processes either (also see above, below and everywhere else on this page).
So that was a waste of an afternoon doing something pointless, and now a waste of an evening writing about how pointless the afternoon was. Circle of life or something something. I’m tired of being bored, and bored of being tired. If you want the recipe for Scrunch’s Sadness Cakes follow our… follow our… um… maybe just reply below, and I will reply either immediately or within 6 to 8 weeks depending on how (un)balanced my brain chemistry is.
And I’m truly sorry I called you boring for enjoying cooking, or for reading about cooking. You are allowed to enjoy these things, and sometimes when I think I’m being funny I’m just being spiteful and poisonous. See? Scrunch’s Sadness Cakes, the label says ‘chocolate’ but the real flavour is despair.
Bedtime you useless bastard.