Rachel’s Chocolate Chip Cookies

Last night, all I wanted was a homemade chocolate chip cookie right out of the oven. Maybe two or three, actually, with a glass of milk and some DVR’d episodes of Big Bang Theory.

But unfortunately, Rachel’s thoughts were along the same vein. (Minus the TV catch-up, of course.)


She didn’t even wait for the cookies to be baked though–this Counter Dog preferred the dough. Sorry coworkers, the cookies had been destined for the newsroom’s calorie counter, the file cabinet near the editor pod that too frequently hosts buttery and sugary treats. Friday seemed like an appropriate chocolate chip cookie day. But no, not anymore.

The classic Nestle Toll House recipe  always satisfies the craving for a quick, yummy dessert. I mean, there’s a reason it’s been around for so long and used as a key part of the inventory for so many bake sales. It’s practically perfect. (Though you can always up the brown sugar to 1 cup and reduce the white to 1/2 cup for chewier cookies. Or swap in different chips or mini m&m’s like I did last night. Or sprinkle the top with some salt for that salty-sweet combo that everyone loves. The variations are endless.)

My mom used to say that she could whip up cookies or brownies to relieve a chocolate craving in 20 minutes. That’s smart thinking, and it’s what led me to use my KitchenAid (I’m moving on up from the wooden spoon days of the college dorm, let me tell you what) to quickly mix together the pantry staples of butter, eggs, sugar and flour, along with all the little bits left in a few bags of chips and m&m’s. Ten minutes in the oven, and I’d be a happy girl, enjoying my first sweets since last weekend’s over-indulgent food-fest followed by a bout with the Norovirus. I deserved these cookies. 


That adorable pup (I’M STILL MAD AT YOU RACHEL) had tried to help by pulling butter wrappers off the counter. That’s not the end of the world, though. Then her nose wanted to be right in on the action as I scooped the dozen balls of dough onto the first parchment-lined pan and carried it over to the oven. And she stood right by the counter, strategically located under the container of dough, as I went into the restroom.

Just a second later, her front paws were all the way up on the counter and her muzzle was buried deep in the dough. I YELLED SO, SO LOUD. I haven’t been that mad in quite some time. OFF, DOG, OFF. THOSE ARE MY COOKIES. NOT YOURS. I shoved her into the laundry room (her time-out spot) and salvaged what dough I could that hadn’t been dogified from the back half of the container.

As I sat on the couch, fuming, and eating more than my desired two cookies, I wondered what that Lab was up to…

Back in the kitchen, her paws were on the counter AGAIN! This time, her tongue was perilously close to the cooling rack with the few remaining cookies that I actually baked.

Up went the baby gate to lock her out of the kitchen. You better not try that again…

What? Me? I never do anything I'm not supposed to!
What? Me? I never do anything I’m not supposed to!

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