I have 30 cookies to give away to good homes

I attempted the cookies again last night.

It happens from time to time; I get an irresitible urge to bake something. I get so consumed with the prospect of sifting flour and cracking eggs that I actually forget that I can't bake. I get easily romanced by the idea of mindlessly drawing, accompanied by Sufjan Stevens and the soft smell of melting cookies wafting from the oven. A warm cookie feels like the perfect punctuation to the end of a lazy day. A warm home-baked cookie seems even better.

High on the prospect of cookies that would change my life, I set out. This time I was going to get it right. None of my past experiments with "close enough" ingredients, or approximate measurements. Dressed appropriately in my apple green 50's wrap skirt and vintage baby blue sweater, I was determined. I looked like June Cleaver, and dammit, I was going to bake like her too.

I returned, handbag brimming with flour and baking soda and butter. And started to bake.

Sadly, I wish I could go on, telling tales of cookies that would put Mrs. Cleaver to shame. Cookies that would encourage world peace and heal the ozone, but it was just not to be. I guesstimated the butter horribly, and once again, was too easily seduced by Galaxy chocolate and sticky cookie dough. By the time my cookies arrived from the oven, the sight of them made me want to retch.

Although not a total loss, the butter-to-cookie ratio is way off, and they just aren't doing it for me.

It's time to succumb to the simple fact that while I have my own talents, baking is not one of them. I will pass the torch to my friends who were born with a spatula in hand, and I will stick to doodling on post-it notes and making leg warmers out of old socks.

Thankfully, all hope is not lost. I will be returning to the homeland in mere weeks, and if I beg really hard, my mom just might bake me some cookies.