The Cookietastrophy

One night at home with no one else here,

I think to myself: how do I show that I care?

How do I say thank you so much,

for taking me in and just being clutch?

Well of course, that's it! Cookies I'll make!

Do what I love - just start to bake!

So I planned my grocery run for the next day.

I was excited and happy, and went on my merry way.

I got all the things - flour, sugar, and chocolate too.

This was going to be absolutely nothing new.

But wait... hold up! Is there a cookie sheet?

No. But no worries. My match I will not meet.

Cookie bars it is! Just as yum and easy to make.

But wait... hold up! Can the oven even bake?

Struggles with starting rusty ol' Betty.

She's really only used to stovetop spaghetti.

After some help I figure it out.

Turned the oven on, which stopped my pout.

So - in they go, the cookie bar dish.

I wait and wonder - when will they finish?

They're NOT done at alarm number two.

So I set one again... and again. Yes. It's true.

I keep watching the top. Is it golden brown yet?

If not now, then for sure with the next alarm. Bet.

One final check and finally they're done.

I let them cool and can't wait to share the fun.

I start cutting the bars... something feels off.

I pry one loose, and boy do I scoff.

Blackened beneath, charcoal is the word.

Not even something to feed a bird.

I try to save what I can by pulling a Gramps.

Meaning scraping the black to save them by chance.

A few little ones make it out half ok.

But, I'll have to try again... some future day.

All this to say: baking in a foreign kitchen,

might have you doing some pretty loud bitchin'.

Crumby Cookietastrophy

P.s. planning on leaving a comment below? Don't forget to add your initials or your name if you want me to know who you are!