Forgive me if I stray during this post. Fight Club is on.

The funniest thing about Granola making cookies at our house is not that she considers it an art form. It’s not that she considers our kitchen her “Art studio”, for which she is not paying rent, by the way. It’s not that she was honestly concerned that I would not like the first batch of cookies because they were a bit too chewy, as if sugar and chocolate in any form could be wrong.

The funniest thing about Sarah making cookies is that she stands in the kitchen staring at the stove with a sort of grim and worried intensity, as if to say to it via body language, “Look, jackass, if you screw with me or my cookies in any way I will, so help me God, rip out your heating coil and shove it up your vent hood.” I never found any cookies funnier.