In my family, we enjoy food. You should see our family parties; it's a banquet, and I'm not exaggerating. Christmas, Thanksgiving, 4th of July, it doesn't matter. It's not complete without chips and salsa and bread and dips and cookies and brownies and cheese-- my word! The cheese!-- and drinks and treats. It's downright indulgent, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I love to cook, and most of the time, I'm reasonably good at it. With that in mind, I recently began a hunt for a crucial ingredient to a new recipe I wanted to try. After extensive searching on the internet and by phone to every fancy-pants hippy food store in the valley, I finally located a local baking supply warehouse that claimed to have those delicious little cinnamon chunks crucial to making cinnamon burst bread. I was elated.
So I took my life in my hands, and wandered for 45 minutes in an industrial section of town far from humanity, keeping a careful outlook for both the baking warehouse and for any ax murderers. (It looked like an ax murderer sort of area.)(Not that I'm judging.)
And when I finally found it, I nearly bounced inside, my promise to Schmoopsie for a dessert surprise ringing in my ears.
And that's when the lady in the apron told me I'd have to buy FIFTY POUNDS of cinnamon chunks.