Chocolate Chip Cookies of Doom!!!

"So how does it feel to be an old man?" I asked my Beau earlier today when he came home for lunch.  His response was that of someone who had had decided he was tired of people asking him the same question over and over again.  He cautiously opened the fridge.
"What's for dinner?"
"Um... Hamburgers?  Something made from hamburger?  Chicken food?"  It's been a while since I've made a major grocery run to the big city, so we've been scraping meals together that have been solely cow protein.  He gave me a dirty look, and peered back into the Frigidaire.
About ten minutes later, it was decided for his birthday lunch he wanted biscuits and gravy.  I don't know about your biscuit and gravy recipe, but the only thing made from a recipe are the biscuits.  The chicken gravy (yes, chicken.  It's heavenly, healthy, and you don't have to drain off the grease!) is made from chicken, milk and flour.  We had to be quick, for he had to get back to work and do important work things, like standing behind a counter dealing with gruff amateur carpenters.
After dinner was cooked and eaten, he began to flip through HIS cookbook that contained recipes for when he moved from home (not that he ever used any until I moved in).  Finding the recipe of his mom's for chocolate chip cookies, he plunked the book down in my lap while I was feeding our Poopmonster, tapped the book several times, and said jollily, "All I want today is cookies."
I gave him a dirty look.  "It'd be more possible for me to go hand-fish a shark from the Ar-Kansas river, or  climb one of the new windmills, or maybe even kiss a spider that to bake cookies.  You know how my cookies turn out."
If anyone has ever seen a Frisbee fly through a kiln then get mooshed by a semi would then understand why my cookies are less than desirable.
"For meeeee?" He batted his eyelashes and pursed his lips.  Dang, I'm a sucker, I thought.
"All you have to do is make it exactly like what the recipe says.  No additions, subtractions or replacements.  Just. Exactly.  As.  Is.  Look, it even tells you how and when to mix it up!"
"Whatever," I shrugged.
The thing about this recipe is that it calls for ungodly amounts of fats, sugars and other nasty things.  However, being the good girlfriend, I began rummaging around the cabinets, freezers, and fridge until I found almost everything needed.  I was down three tablespoons of thawed butter and some applesauce.  This was going to be so fun!
 I quickly whipped out the baby food processor (it steams AND purees!) and dropped a couple of chopped apples in.  While that was working away, I dug up some coconut oil (to replace the missing butter) and got to work mixing up the rest of the batter.  First thing to go was the total of two and a half cups of sugar.  I reduced it to a little over a cup, added the pudding (which is entirely sugar anyway), and the rest of the ingredients.  By the time I was ready for the flour, the apples were done; into the mixer they went...

Yom.

Anywho, after all my toiling and slaving away over a hot stove, etc. etc., I pulled out the finished products from the blazing inferno.
They.  Are.  PERFECT.
I don't think I've ever made cookies this amazing.  They're floofy pillows of awesomeness (a phrase I've only heard guys used to describe female anatomy).  Perfectly browned, perfectly round, and just a hint coconutty.  I believe my cookie jinx is over.  Now, I've only to get them past my Beau's gullet before I tell him what's in them....

Obviously, they didn't last very long.

Experiment Still in the Works

Well, veggies are one thing I can disguise... as long as I overdo it on the garlic.
The other night, as promised, I attempted to sneak veggies into my Beau's supper.  It would have worked relatively well.  The carrot-pea-broccoli puree was well disguised in a garlicky tomato sauce I got at the store.  The chickpea balls disguised the coloring of the puree well within it's dry cheesiness.  There was not one hint anywhere within the house that I had used (gasp) vegetables in the evening meal.  His reaction to what I was serving up, however, was where it got gritty.
"What the hell is this?" he grunted as I coyly pulled the crispy golden balls from the oven and slid them into a bowl.
"It's Meatless... Wednesday.  It's good for you.  You can even put ketchup on it!"  I exclaimed a little too bubbly.  He gave me a raised eyebrow and took a nibble off of a smaller ball.  By the look on his hairy face, I knew he didn't enjoy it, but our silent agreement is that he has to at least eat it for one meal, lest my feelings are damaged (because my feelings are soooo fragile).  So he divvied up a serving, pausing with the spoon over the sauce.
Another raised eyebrow.
"You remember that really garlicky sauce I got the last time we were at the store?  I've miraculously tamed it.  Go on.  Eat."  He snorted, took a little taste, and laid the spoon back on the stove.
"Ick."
Needless to say, he slathered his meatless meal in Curly's Mesquite while I glumly chowed down on a garlic-infused feast.  Vampires won't be coming after me anytime soon!

Macaroni and Deceit

I've a problem.  A very large problem.  It involves my beau (heck, let's just call him 'Beau') and his amazingly keen sense of taste.
I love to cook.  I've been cooking ever since I was able to see the range top at Gramma's house.  Those first few dishes I prepared weren't really the tastiest (nor made of edible things), but I persevered until I evolved into the Messiest Chef you'll ever have the misfortune of knowing.
My boyfriend, who happens to be one of the neatest (both nifty and clean) guy I know, isn't much of a chef.  When we started dating, the weekend staples were mac&cheese, bologna sandwiches, and pancakes.  Not quite a balanced meal.  Whenever he came over to the farm, I'd whip up Thai, German, and seafood-inspired pizzas (which I grilled on my bullet-shaped smoker), couscous with all sorts of colorful goodies, home-butchered pheasant and rice casseroles, and many other delightful, healthy tucker that leaves one's mouth watering just reminiscing.
Then came the moving-in.
I soon came to the realization that all those weekend nights he spent at my place dining on buttermilk biscuits and grits and vegetable soup, he was really holding back his gag reflex.  It's been a year now, and I've successfully sneaked in a big whopping zero servings of veggies.
This is where this blog entry comes in.
In the next month (starting tomorrow), I will attempt to puree, mash, disguise, and stuff as many vegetables and fruits I can into each and every meal I make.  This is a great challenge, as he has the taste buds of.... well, someone who has really good taste buds.  This is an ill-written blog, but I'm doing it in between his trips in and out of the room.
Updates will be posted as soon as I get the results.
Wish me luck.

In the Beginning...

This being my first foray into the bloggerverse, I apologize.
Very few of you know what you're getting into by browsing my page.  You have many expectations, all of which I eagerly refuse to rise and meet with verve.  I am not that sort of gal.  Preferring to  blaze my own path of destruction, I will not only wow you with boring little anecdotes, I will attempt to attack all of your senses with a wild assortment of how-tos ranging from general housewivery (sewing, cooking, un-organization, etc.) to dirt tans, cow wranglin', and unconventional miscellany.  Pictures will hopefully follow.
You have been warned.