This morning I woke to the sound of an electric mixer. When I wandered out to the kitchen in bare feet and bathrobe, I found the mixer running by itself in what appeared to be a baking war zone. Chocolate chips were scattered across one counter, surrounding a bowl very nearly overflowing with pecans. Greasy butter wrappers lay face-up under measuring cups and teaspoons, and eggshells were strewn across the sink. A solid brick of brown sugar sat defiant on a cutting board, small crumbles carved away from the corners with the giant knife that lay next to it. Powdered sugar stuck to my bare feet and, not finding her anywhere at first glance, I was afeared for my grandmother's life.
Thankfully she came in again moments later, though she was fuming and clutched a claw hammer in one fist. (It was for the brown sugar, I later came to learn.)
This is the start of the countdown to Christmas for Grandma, because her best friend of many decades is coming to stay in three days (which means I am presently in the rather involved process of trying to move out). I'm pretty sure this is what prompted the baking, anyway, because when I found the recipe it was one of her friend's.
In any case, she had started everything without checking the brown sugar supply, and then she couldn't leave to get more because the plumber was supposed to be coming, so the whole operation ground to a halt until she could leave the house to make a grocery run. At this point I went to bed again. (I'm sick, and desperately need the sleep.)
I woke up again around 11:00. The plumber had still not come, but the kitchen was slightly less chaotic. The floor was clean again. The counters were tidy. The butter wrappers had been thrown away. The eggshells were down the disposal. The measuring-stuffs were in the dishwasher. The brown sugar was now in finger-size chunks (the hammer was still on the cutting board).
Drank half a gallon of orange juice and blew my nose into an entire box of kleenex. Back to bed.
Up again at about 2:00. Plumber came and went and Grandma had gone for more brown sugar, but she'd put the dough-mixture-so-far into the fridge while she waited and now it was too stiff for her to even mix in the sugar.
Drank the other half-gallon. Back to bed.
Up again around 8:00, and this time to a nice faint smell of something sweet baking. Then I opened the door and stepped into the hall and got the full brunt of burning sugar smell. In the kitchen, Grandma was cleaning the oven and muttering under her breath. When asked, she explained that she had test-baked a few cookies because they are supposed to spread a lot, and she wanted to be sure she would be leaving enough room and they had SPREAD ACROSS THE ENTIRE COOKIE SHEET AND OVER THE EDGES AND DOWN ONTO THE HEATING ELEMENT DAMN IT. (Such was her vehemence, these capital letters.)
As it turned out, in her relief at finally having brown sugar of a pliable nature, she had forgotten to add the flour. So by the time I was awake, she had added the flour, though she realized as we spoke that she used the full amount of flour called for by the recipe, despite the fact she had already "made" five test cookies. She has now given up for the evening, and plans to add another egg and some more butter in the morning to see if maybe that will compensate. She's too annoyed to clean up the kitchen tonight (there is flour EVERYWHERE), and tomorrow can only be an adventure.
Maybe it's genetic?
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