If you didn’t, I also placed a sign in front of them that says “triple-fudge brownies” in an Olde English font that I learned in my calligraphy class. I thought about just leaving them there—you know, with no label—but I had some time to kill between my 5 AM Vinyasa flow and dropping Grayson off at Montessori and thought, what the heck? It was a refreshing and welcome change from my usual idle habit of stabbing a Barefoot Contessa voodoo doll with my knitting needle! How easy is that?
The brownies are gluten-free, nut-free, dairy-free, vegan, flourless, low-fat, endorsed by both Mary Berry and the Barefoot Contessa, and blessed by the Pope. Which, I’ll admit, probably wouldn’t be a selling point in any other era, but he’s not a regular pope, he’s a cool pope (Thanks for the RT, @Pontifex). I’m so glad I decided to whip up a batch in our Vatican City Airbnb last year! I am wildly unhappy.
Sure, Betty Crocker, Sara Lee, and Marie Callender make it easy to take shortcuts, but—and excuse my French—fuck those fake bitches. Half the joy of baking is realizing you’re out of Dutch process cocoa just as you’re about to transfer your organic sugar and butter mixture into a medium-sized mixing bowl and forcing your husband to bike to Whole Foods in the middle of The Blacklist to pick it up, am I right? Hey, I sure don’t hear him complaining when he gets to taste-test that homemade peanut butter frosting! We haven’t had sex in two years.
My cube-mate, Nancy, once asked me, “How do you find the time?” Well, Nance, I’m not trying to judge here, but it might have something to do with the fact that I don’t watch the “MOST ADORABLE CATS COMPILATION” video on a constant loop while chatting on speakerphone with my psychic. It might also be that I haven’t slept in six days and I still had the time to work a full ten hours at this god-forsaken office, crush my 100th SoulCycle class at lunch, make Allison Roman’s sheet-pan trout with garlicky broccolini for dinner, and write a post about closet reorganization for my mommy blog, Pacifiers and Popcorn. I made the brownies with one hand while reading Where the Crawdads Sing for my ChickLits book club with the other. It’s all about priorities! Sleep is a societal construct! I think I’m starting to hallucinate.
Real talk: those brownies you’re about to enjoy almost didn’t make it into the office! You see, when I was cutting the crusts off of Grayson’s avocado toast this morning, I turned my back for a split second and the little fucker had dug into them! No sweat. After silently cursing my fate and spiraling into the depths of darkness like I do every. single. day., I huffed some pure vanilla extract and quickly mixed up enough batter for three and a half brownies. Not to brag, but I could adjust the ingredients while sloshed on five appletinis (oh, and I have). I gingerly placed them onto the middle rack, and locked myself in the bathroom to cry for exactly 13 minutes. When the oven starts beeping, I stop sobbing.
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