Before I tell you anything, I'd like to say I was very young at the time.
So here it goes:
It was Mother's Day, and my mother was out doing errands, I wanted to do something special to show her just how talented I'd become.
My eyes landed on our oven, and I thought, I know what I'll do! I'll bake her cookies! She loves cookies!
It didn't really cross my mind until much later I'd never baked anything entirely on my own up until them. But my older brother was in the house anyways, and besides, I really really wanted to show her how grown-up I was!
With the help of the step-stool I diligently collected my ingredients.I decided to use chocolate chips and white chocolate chips, in excess, to make the cookies extra special.
Then it came to the mixing. As my brother informed me, as he attempted to stir the mixture, you're supposed to mix things as you add them, not just at the very very end with the chocolate chips already in the mix.
Oh well, I thought, badly mixed cookies should still taste super-good! I mean, it's made from all good stuff, sugar, butter, chocolate, so why not.
In fact, I was so happy when I put the misshapen cookies in the oven, I felt like they were smiling at me and cheering, Go! Go! You're a culinary genius!
I was so excited, my mother was due home soon, and I could smell the cookies! I went to check on them. As I opened the oven I noted the first row had expanded into one giant cookie mass, but the second row looked good. And then I got a better view.
There was fire. One of the cookies was on fire, pieces were falling off, flaming pieces.
Without any thought involved, I snatched my trusty clear Kool-Aid cup off the counter, filled it up with water, took aim, and sent a splash of water into the oven of our electric stove.
Thankfully, the true disaster ends there.
Except I burned my thumb getting the cookie tray out of the oven.
And the cookies were undercooked on top.
And badly burned on the bottom.
And there were charred remains at the bottom of our oven
And they tasted as terrible as you can imagine
And I burst into tears the moment my mother walked through the door and asked me how I was.
She even ate some of the terrible cookies, and told me they still tasted good.
And for months after I had a deep deep fear of the oven.
I still can't for the life of me figure out why I didn't just call for my brother's help when I saw flames. Or even tell him about it after I dosed it. The moral of the story is, when stuff goes down, you can always count on Mr. Kool-Aid
And I really shouldn't be trusted with baking.
