Hey, Batter Batter!

Part 1:

Last Sunday, I made chocolate chip cookies for a friend’s party.

Mix, mix, mix.

Whisk, whisk, whisk.

Sample, sample, sample.

Delicious!

I put the first batch in the oven, and then ate a spoonful.

And three more.

Just to be sure.

Once all the cookies were in the oven, I finished off the batter, because, well, “No batter left behind.”

“Hey, good looking,” I said, winking at my cookies, through the oven glass.

Clearly, I was hopped up on batter.

An hour later, I pulled the last batch out of the oven and did a quick inventory.

The liars at Nestle said the recipe would make 48 cookies, but I only counted 33.

And that’s when I started to sweat.

At first, I thought it was because the kitchen was hot.

However, this sweating was similar to how one might feel after eating too much bacon.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

We’ve all had the “bacon sweats.”

But this was worse.

My head throbbed.

My stomach churned.

“I don’t feel so well,” I told Steve, running out of the room.

I won’t go into detail, because…

Ew.

Let’s just say, two hours later, with no relief in sight, I lay on the bathroom tile, wailing, “Make – It – Stop!”

Steve rubbed my back.

“I – think – I – need – to – go – to – Urgent – Care,” I stammered, in between moans and groans.

I know there are people who suffer in silence, but my rule is, If I’m going to suffer, we’re all going to suffer.

Steve helped me downstairs and somehow I made my way into the passenger’s seat.

Sweaty and nauseous, I clung to my barf bowl, as if it were a life preserver.

Steve took a look at me in all my splendor.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” he asked, backing down our driveway.

Ratty t-shirt, boxer shorts, robe.

If that’s not “Urgent Care” attire, I don’t know what is.

(Also known as, “Smart Casual.”)

He did have a point, though. 

My maroon robe totally clashed with my red bowl.

Honestly though, I’ve never been one to accessorize.

Steve raced down our street, through the neighborhood, and accelerated onto the 23 freeway.

“Please-go-faster!” I whimpered.

70 MPH!

80 MPH!

And then just as he hit 85 MPH…

Flashing lights appeared in the rear view mirror…

(Check out the link below for the sequel to “Hey, Batter Batter!”)

https://midlifebloomer.com/hey-batter-batter-part-2/