Once upon a time I made a chicken pot pie. And it was delicious and we all lived happily ever after, the end. And also, Jeff took it to work for lunch. Which is a sign that when he said “dinner was good” he actually liked it and didn’t secretly mean “I’m just trying to be a supportive husband because this tastes like glue.”
So anyhow, this small act of him taking a slice of chicken pot pie to work started some sort of lunchtime competition with his co-workers. I think the story is that he made the break room smell good and then wouldn’t share. I don’t really know. What I do know is that when we all went out to dinner, the guys all wanted me to give out the recipe so they could make their own. And I guess no one else’s passed the taste test. I totally didn’t Marie Romano them either. Seriously. I didn’t think about that until after I’d already sent the recipe, much to my chagrin. Because that would have been brilliant.
After that, whenever I would cook chicken pot pie, he would take a picture of me holding it and text it to them in some sort of manly show of…I don’t know what exactly. Apparently, they all find this game highly amusing. It’s like my text-message-picture-war only way less funny.
First of all, I don’t understand boys. Second of all, this is the perfect recipe (no pun intended) for a reality show. Like Cupcake Wars. Or Storage Wars. Only it would be called “Breakroom Wars” and everyone would bust out their brown baggies to see who had the best leftovers. It would be a ratings hit. Also, I’d like to co-host it with Adam Levine. Take note of that, TLC. I’d make an excellent reality television host. Plus, I’m way less high maintenance than Kate Gosselin.
So last night I’m making peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. From scratch, y’all, because I am REALLY TRYING TO NOT BE A DOMESTIC FAILURE OVER HERE. And Jeff comes in the kitchen and says “Wait, are you making those cookies for us to eat tonight?” And I did not respond sarcastically because I’m also really trying to reflect on the bible verses about something about something about “the power of the tongue” and all. So I just said “Yes” because the other verse I read said to let your yes be yes and your no be no. So I think I really nailed that one.
Then Jeff said “Wait, let me get my camera, I’ve got to text to this to guys” and I was all “JEFF I AM AGAINST BEING OBJECTIFIED LIKE THIS, AS THOUGH I’M SOME SORT OF AWESOME COOKIE BAKING WIFE.”
Except I didn’t really say that because, who are we kidding? I’m totally for that.
13 minutes later the timer on the oven chimed it’s cheery little ding and I set the cookies out on the rack to cool. Jeff walks by and snags one and then something horrible happened to his face.
“What is wrong?” I asked
“Oh, I think you’ll know when you take a bite.” he said
“Jeff. I don’t have time for your foolish games. I’m not Jewel. Tell me what is wrong with my cookies.”
“They’re way too salty.” he replied
And I’m all “SALTY?! Why in the world would they be salty? The recipe only calls for 1/4 of a teaspoon of salt and even though I know nothing about fractions, I’m pretty sure that’s a very tiny amount of salt. I don’t understand how they could possibly be OH MY GOSH! OH! MY! GOSH!”
And Jeff is like “So…”
And I’m like “Yeah, I think I might have possibly rolled the balls of cookie dough in salt instead of sugar.”
Son of biscuit.
*Post title is from one of my father’s all time favorite television episodes ever. This one’s for you, dad. Ten points to anyone who gets that reference. **Legal disclaimer: you don’t actually get any points.
