"I want to do some baking this year," Killernurd said the other day. "There wasn't time last year, and the year before that, we were moving."
"I can get behind that," I replied, then scrounged up some recipes I'd been meaning to try. "Would you like to do cookies or bread?"
My roommate looked chagrined. "Errr...no. I want to do shortbread."
"...shortbread?" I refrained from pulling a face, remembering all the boxes of Walker's I've endured through years of holidays with my family. There's nothing wrong with Walker's; I just...don't eat it as enthusiastically.
He nodded. "My family's recipe."
"The super-secret recipe your grandma has? That shortbread everyone says is nigh-onto-foodgasmic, but I have yet to taste?"
"...really?" He blinked at me a moment. "You haven't?" As I nodded, he sighed. "I have failed you."
There was a moment of silence.
"...wanna help me make up a couple of batches?"
So tonight we did -- I took his flour-sifter on its initial run (and now my wrists hurt), he carefully spread out the dough on his brand-spanking-new jelly-roll pans, and when it came time to
It's good. It's really, really good. And it's all for other people, which is probably better for me, but KN won't miss one or five pieces when he's wrapping up plates of it tomorrow...right?
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