I stand corrected.

Cookies are cookies. They are basically deep-fried miniature cakes. And tasty because of the butter in it which fries the dough. I know the BF will protest at such a prosiac statement. He can bake. Excellently, I will grudgingly admit. So it could be, in my case, a case of over-baked, stone cookies with lots of sour grapes.

But it doesn't change the fact that dough gets cooked in high temperatures. And I have noticed in my usual, mean, calorie-counting ways, that the amount of butter, read inches on your waistline, is enough to fry a horse; let alone some small pieces of flour, sugar and chopped fruit.

And it irks the BF that I merely cursorily measure out the ingredients by estimating the amount I just dunked into the mixing bowl. It irks me that he measures out everything to the exact gram. Which is odd, because I am the anal, neurotic, picky neat freak, and he's well, scientific. Those were his words. Scientific. Fine.

So, does that mean I'm a creative cook? Well, my cookies work. But I'm still testing out this current batch on the Brat's friends. Heh.

Hey, anything fried and sweet is tasty to humans. We are programmed that way.