My girl stef is showing off her food, and not giving any of it to me.
Originally posted on Zombie Chicken Juice:
Rather than fork over money to the giant corporate machine that revolves around this holiday, I made cookies. And I made the kids help, because character. Also because the little girl would skin me if I did anything involving butter without her.
These are simple cookies, but they do take time. There’s making the dough and chilling it the night before and rolling it out and cutting the shapes and baking them and cooling them and making the frosting and basically ANYTHING BUT WRITING. I’ve got a handful of minor projects giving me the side-eye and tapping their little toes in passive-aggressive impatience. Meanwhile the hulking shadow of my novel lights a new cigarette with the glowing end of its last one and lets out a raspy chuckle on a puff of fresh smoke. Its a lifer in the purgatory that is my computer’s hard drive. It knows the drill, and it knows these newbie projects will learn their place soon enough.
I’m feeling guilty about baking cookies instead of writing, is what I’m saying.
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