I didn't know gummy bears came in timid. But this one is.

The Raisin Poodle Cookie

The Raisin Poodle Cookie

This cookie looks like a dog, I'm thinking its a poodle. It has a nose in the middle and a tongue at the bottom. It also has two eye sockets, though I'm not sure what happened to its eyes. Maybe they were gouged out by the ChocolateChip Pit Bull Cookie. Anyways, if it were entered in a dog competition, I think it would win Best of Show, despite the lack of a body.

Popcorn

Popcorn,
I am really sorry about what happened to you. I didn't really think it would end that way, you know? I mean, when I first looked at your expiration date, I knew you were sort of too old for me. December 2007, wow. But I had high hopes for you. So, I'm sorry that you got thrown out in the end. I'm sorry that you had to suffer an excruciating 2:15 minutes in the microwave, where your innards burst open, only to be thrown out after. I'm sorry that my mom suggested that you might be rancid. I'm sorry that I only ate two pieces of you before pronouncing you chewy. I should've gotten through the whole bag first to make such a judgement. And because of that, you were thrown into the blue bin, and by now you're probably riding around in the garbage truck. So I'm sorry. Its not fair.

Misters Pesto and Marinara

Misters

Pesto and Marinara

Mister Pesto and Mister Marinara hang out on the town. "Let's go tussle with some pasta," says Mister Pesto. "Right," says Mister Marinara. The summer breeze drifts across the open oven range. Mister Pesto and Mister Marinara hustle on to the counter. They chubby legs step, one two, one, two. These basil brothers nonchalantly hobble over to the cupboard panty. "Hey there," says Mister Marinara. He leans his elbow up on a box of pasta, looks down the avenue. "It's Penne, your main swing," says Mister Marinara. Mister Pesto nods. He asks Mister Marinara, " Who are you going with this evening? Will it be Lasagna again?" Mister Marinara scoffs. "I'm not going with that broad." Penne slouches up to Mister Pesto. "Let's hit the night," she says. Mister Marinara seems sulky. He doesn't have a date yet. He searches the avenue for another pasta to go with. Vermicelli- too tall. Fettucine- too flat. Elbow- too cutesy. Bow tie- well... it could be done. Shell- too small. Mister Marinara sulks even more. Penne looks over at him from the crook of Mister Pesto's arm. "I'll call up my sister Rigatoni."

Mister Pesto and Mister Marinara, along with their dates, stroll along the table. Something white comes into view in the distance. Mister Pesto peers closer. He waves. Mister Marinara peers closer. He becomes upset. It is Alfredo. With Fettucine, his date. Mister Marinara looks away. "Let's book it out of here," he says. Mister Pesto brushes off the statement. He is friends with Alfredo. But Mister Marinara is the arch nemesis of Alfredo. They don't get along. Mister Marinara can be short-tempered at times. Mister Pesto and Mister Marinara continue their walk; so does Alfredo. They meet up. Mister Marinara tries to stare down Alfredo. Alfredo has no problem, he plays it cool. "Hey my brothers," says he. "I'm out for a recovery stroll t'night. I got mixed up with some vegetables- a bad crowd. I have to get my priorities straight, so here I am with my girl Fettuccine." Misters Pesto and Marinara nod. Mister Marinara speaks, "I got to go to the cheese drawer. Either Mozzarella or Parmesan is expecting me and Rigatoni. I'll catch up with you two later." He walks off. "I have a feeling its the end of the road for him," says Mister Pesto. "You were lucky you got out alive, Alfredo." Mister Pesto and Alfredo take their dates home, then return to their jars in the fridge. They are some saucy lads.

The Brand

TAp-TAp. The sound of metal on metal. The tines of the fork scrape against the baking pan. All is silent for a moment. Then-- it is time. The sugar coated fork is lowered, and pressed deep into the flesh of the cookie, branding it with deep ridges. Then again, the fork is lowered and pushed crosswise against the skin. A silent murmur is whispered in the crowd. What is this, you ask? Some primeval torture ceremony? No, it is the INITIATION. The time when every young raw peanut butter cookie becomes an adult, ready for the rough and tumble of the heat of the oven. The peanut butter cookies are known for their primitive traditions. They are also known for inbreeding, as they often marry their cousins. No one knows where these rituals originated, but some regard them as cruel practices.

Some people tend to eat their peanut butter cookies untouched by the fork. They think that they are saving the cookie from pain and torment, when, in actuality, they are simply worsening the situation. You see, the branding is a sort of bond between cookies. When the branded encounter the untouched, a dreadful sort of thing happens. Its called cannibalism. Have you ever noticed that your cookie supply (any type of cookie; unfortunately, this practice is common) runs out very very very fast? They've been eating themselves. It's quite the only rational reason. If its not true... That means there are quite a few gluttons around these parts. Gluttons that congregate around cookies. Whatever, man. I don't buy that.

Peanut Butter Cookies use the brand as their trademark. Without the crosshatching, all you have is a common brown cookie. The brand is a part of the peanut butter cookie identity. Here's what one cookie had to say about the ceremony, right before he was shoved in the oven:

"It was the most exhilirating thing. I'd been looking forward to coming of age ever since I was rolled in sugar. As the fork pressed into me... it was very very painful. I felt my nonexistent spine cracking. But now I am an adult cookie! That was a make me or break me time and I made it! Congratulate me! Now, I am a real peanut butter cookie. Bring on the heat!"

The initiation ceremony is the most important part of a peanut butter cookie's life. It teaches endurance, discipline, strenght, and compassion to a raw cookie. Its more than just a fancy baking thing. Its a way of life.

The Schism

A History of the Outrageous Chocolate Chip Cookie Schism

For some reason, cookies seem to be a tad testy these days. I made some of these Outrageous Chocolate Chip Cookies, which are just chocolate chip cookies with peanut butter and oatmeal. I rolled half of the dough into balls ready to be placed on the baking sheet. I left the other half unrolled. I went away for a little while, and when I returned, it was pandemonium.

The dough had segregated itself. The rolled dough was piled all on one side of the dough and the other dough was just sitting there. Both sides had the frown, glares, and surliness down, and the angry eyebrows to boot. Outrageous. They were absolutely refusing to associate with each other, despite the fact that they came from the same ingredients. I tried to be a mediator, but they would not listen. Rolled dough boasted of their obvious superiority. Their figure was classy and sophisticated. "Spheres are the most amazing of all 3D shapes," they said. They were cultured. They were educated. They were round. They were pro-active. They were ready for business. "oho-ho-ho," replied the unrolled dough, in unison. "That means nothing. We here on our side are in harmony. We are all one and the same; no differences between us. We are a community. We are ready to support one another." Here one of the rolled balls of dough tried to fling himself at the blob of dough and tried to attack, but his cronies restrained him. They only said, "Support? Ha! We know support! We can form our corp into a pyramid and then back down. HA!" The unrolled dough group only deepened their frowns. They tried to turn their back to the balls, but to no avail. They were too sticky. The balls were so compact, however, that they were successfully able to turn their backs to the plosh of unrolled dough. The unrolled dough sent out agents to steal the chocolate chips of the other side. The balls of dough would occasionally moon the other side, leading to shrieks of indignation. I think it would have escalated to all-out war. But I had to stop it before something drastic happened. So I baked the cookies, and then helped to eat them. And that was the end of that.

Little Mister Seal Fish

Oh! Little mister seal fish swims across the sea! He ducks and dives and pirouettes and does all sorts of fancy things. Let me ride upon your back mister seal fish! We will swim everyone, and you will swim faster than any other seal fish out there! You will not have to live in fear of carnivorous mister polar bear, like other seals. Your life will be one of the deep sea, and dances in the ocean blue. Oh! Little mister seal fish!

Evie's Foodfilled Face

This photograph is too cute not to share. Evie was super hungry and she had a dishful of food to fill her cheeks with. And the result is adorableness!

Milk's Inbox

My Dearest Milk,

Over the past few minutes, I have found that I am nothing without you. I thought I was a great sandwich, but in the shadow of your liquid volume, I have found that I have nothing to offer. I am dry and sticky. I am not half the food that I am with you. You wash me down, leaving the best of the taste I have to offer. Oh, Milk, I cannot survive without you. Those days when I go without seeing your foaming white beauty, I am limp and sad. But when you are with me, I feel like a whole new sandwich! I love you, Milk, and I never want to go another day without you.

Fondly, PB&J



Oh Milk,

I cannot begin to describe my life without you. I come out of the oven, hot and gooey, and extremely uncomfortable. You are right there waiting for me. I would burn the mouth if not for you. You bring out the best in me. I have shown you nothing but loyalty and faithfulness, dear Milk. I do not go out with Water, or Lemonade. Because I know that we are meant to be. I know it. My dark facial features with your pale, fairness. We are quite a pair, no? Let's keep it that way. You are more than a friend. You are a soulmate.

Love, ChocolateChipCookie

Hey Milk!

Buddy, I just want to tell you how much you mean to me. I'm sort of a hard and crunchy character, but you soften my edges. My dry sense of humor and your great-all-around personality- we make one great team! I love it when you and I and all our other friends like Cheerios and Raisin Bran and Lucky Charms and granola get together and bond in one big bowl. I think you're just plumb nice milk!

Your friend, HoneyBunchesofOats

Milk:

Be at the counter tomorrow, 8:14 PM sharp. We'll need a one and a half cup for the muffins.

The Muffin Team Leader, Flour

P.S. Your paycheck will be sent to you by the end of the month.

Dear Milk,

I had a really interesting time on our date last night. I think you are a really great character and you have a lot of potential in life. But quite frankly, Milk, I don't think you are I are going to work out. I didn't feel any real connection, you know? I hope you feel the same way. I don't mean to hurt you, honestly. It's just that this really doesn't feel right. I'm sure we'll both find our one and only, one of these days. I wish you the best of luck in your life, Milk.

Sincerely, Carrots

MILK,

Get off our back, man. We're already fine and then you come in and mess up our pure delicate taste. Coffee likes being black. Tea likes being strong. What's up with you? Your cold white liquidity is not welcome at the hot drink counter. Leave us alone.

Coffee & Tea

P.S. Hot Chocolate would like us to tell you that if you come within one foot of his mug he will make your life terrible.

M

It’s not everyday that your casserole is intelligent enough to speak to you. It’s only once in a blue moon that something like this happens:

(see in the Middle of the picture?)
If that small bit of sauce conglomerated on the side of the glass pan in the shape of an M is not communication, I don’t know what is. Granted, I don’t actually know what my casserole was saying to me. Perhaps it meant the first letter of my dad's name. Perhaps it meant M, in reference to Judi Dench’s character in James Bond. Perhaps it just meant M, as in the 13th letter of the alphabet. Perhaps it meant M, as in, “Mmmmm… I taste good”. Or maybe the casserole just didn’t get a chance to finish the word. Or the sentence. Or the Monologue. Maybe the casserole wanted to warn me of something, wanted to send me a Message. A Message that the world is Manic, full of Murderers, Make-up, Marauders, Mammograms, Mistakes, Misplaced affection (not to Mention Misplaced keys), Manipulation, false Masculinity, Manga, Mid-sized sedans, Monsters, Manners, and Mix-ups. A Message that it’s a Mad, Mad world and that I should Make My way to the nearest exit. To which message, dear casserole, I Must agree. But I think I must also give the casserole the benefit of the doubt. It could have been trying to say something nice. After all, the world also has Marvelous things, such as Mothers, Mud, Mansions, Mountains, Disneyland, Measuring cups, Malmö, Mayday, and Maps. If my casserole was trying to say something, it Must be something important. Which is why I am going to say that the casserole did mean, M, as in Judi Dench’s character in James Bond. As a good friend, I am going to listen to my casserole. And so now it is time to watch Quantum of Solace. Magnificent!

Blueberry Bog

Blueberry bog... a bog of many dangers. Many blueberries go in... all come out changed berries. One such blueberry was named Friar. Friar lived in a bag in the freezer. It was a cold life, naturally. He lived with his fellow blueberries. They talked amongst themselves and Friar, always the philosopher, questioned the way of life in the plastic bag of blueberries. His friends did not approve of his curious mind and they were very relieved when, one day, the bag was taken out of the freezer and Friar was taken out of that bag. Friar was relieved as well. He did not like being frowned upon. He would rather be smiled at. Friar was dropped into a bowl of pancake batter. Back then, it was just a Batter Bog. It wasn't so bad. The other blueberries were upset. What was this weird mush sort of thing? They squrimed around and that was not a good thing, because their blue insides eked out and turned the creamy batter blue. And when the blue eked out, so did the antioxidants. Hmmm... Perhaps, thought Friar, this bog is like one of those bogs in Scotland and other places where bodies are preserved like mummies in the peat. Their hair turns red yet is perfectly preserved. Friar thought about that with giddy anticipation, until he realized he did not have hair. As Friar contemplated what this bog might do to him, he felt himself being lifted up in a... what's this... a measuring cup? Then he hit the griddle. Sizzle... Friar was warm all of a sudden. The batter was pulling together. Uh- he couldn't move... he was preserved in a pancake. And Friar remained in that pancake for many a minute until an archeologist, or, so he assumed, unearthed him with a silver pronged utensil. Then he was lifted up, and eaten.

Face Number 1

This was the very first face. I was eating one of those chocolate ball things and I bit in and looked and hey! There was the face, complete with teeth in the mouth. He is a Cyclops but I like him all the same. After this face, I began finding more and more and more. So, really, this little guy was the start of it all.

Note: I used a pencil to make the little dot in the eye, but that was the only thing that I altered. There still would have been a face without it but I felt like the pencil dot emphasized the eye.

Sprinkle Hunt 5: The Final Piece

The end of this journey is near. You can feel it in the wind. It puts a spring in your step and gives you a light heart. When you reach the blue container again, you know exactly what to do. Pushing off from the ground, you jump up and flap the walnut wings. It's a long flight up, but you reach the peak. You see it, what you knew you would see. The FLOUR FLOWER.

You see that it is an inscription in the flour, done by the indigenous people of the kitchen. They seem to have a great artistry. There is a message on the side of the containter. "Partake of the flourous fruit of the flour flower, and use it only in your greatest need." Well, 'greatest need' seems to describe your situation. You scoop up some of the flour and stuff it in your pocket. Then you jump off the peak and fly done, lightly hitting the counter. Now what? Hmmm. You sit down and think, leaning your head against the eye of egg. And you see something in the crack... You push your eye up against the crack and look. WHAT IS THIS???? OH NO!! You see the culprit of the crime- the thief of your sprinkles. And it is... SOUR CREAM TWIST! And you see him, sour cream twist, sitting at the top of the fridge, drawing up some sort of plans on paper, with your sprinkles right there next to him! They look worried and scared. You look closer... The plans seem to detail what he intends to do with the sprinkles... such as sprinkling them on himself. That wouldn't be so bad, only 1. excessive sprinkling is a terrible, terrible thing. 2. breakfast foods don't need sprinkles! You pull yourself away. You know what you have to do. You roll the egg away; you won't need it anymore. And you push off from the ground yet again, flying up to the top of the fridge. The flight takes several hours, but it gives you time to examine the different magnets and that's enjoyable. Okay, you are there! "WHAT???" gasps sour cream twist. You look at him.

"I have come to take my rightful sprinkles back! I need them! You don't!" Sour Cream Twist glares at you. "I want sprinkles. I want to make myself colorful. I want them, and I don't want anyone else to have them. And if I don't get them, I will burn them and make sure no one else will!" OH! You are astounded that he suggested burning sprinkles. What kind of a world is this? "You are a twisted delicacy!!" you say to him. "Yes, I am! I'm a maniac but I will have sprinkles. The world has given me no recognition! Bagels, Donuts, Pastrys, Hot Cross Buns! I have no place in the breakfast industry! No one knows of me! Sprinkles will give me the boost I need! Children will see me and be filled with joy! Everyone loves sprinkles and everyone will love me! I hate a world that I have no place in!" OH!! Again, you are astounded. "You are so bitter! You are so sour! Not even sprinkles will sweeten up your life." Sour Cream Twist doesn't want to talk about himself anymore. He is tired of you. He nods, and you feel the walnut wings being ripped off your back. You turn around, and his henchmen are right there. You didn't plan for this. But then you realize, you have elbows. And so you elbow the henchmen off the edge of the fridge. They fall, and Sour Cream Twist is upset, even more. He snarls at you. You reach into your pocket and pull out the flour in your pocket. You throw it at him. "NOOOOO!!!!!" he yells. "I was supposed to be down with flour! It reminds me of my early days, of being kneaded! NOOOOO! How... how dare you..." Sour Cream Twist writhes on the ground, squirming. You run to your sprinkles and hug them. Its good to be reunited. As for Sour Cream Twist... he's no longer so twisty. He squirmed his way out of twistiness and is now just a long, straight piece of dough, coated with butter, sugar, and cinnamon. You feel sorry for him. "Look," you say to him. "Look here, you don't need sprinkles to be special. You are amazing as you are. You have a twist. You have sour cream. Those are amazing characteristics. Look, if you feel overshadowed by massproduced breakfast goods, if you feel all alone... Don't. I know someone who will be your friend... Just come with me." You gesture to Sour Cream Twist, and, sniffling a little bit, he follows you. He was just lonely and embittered after all. When you introduce him to his new friend, he perks up. He squirms with happiness and twists back into shape. His new friend? Cinnamon Bun. He's twisted too, in a different way. Or maybe its rolled. At any rate, he's homemade and yummy, just like Sour Cream Twist. It's a breakfast match made in heaven.

You look at Sour Cream Twist and Cinnamon Bun and you feel happy. You look at Sprinkles at your side, and she smiles up at you. "Let's go sprinkle those cookies," you say. And you do. And they taste delicious.

Sprinkle Hunt 4

You run onto the stove, almost tripping over the burners. The heat flares up around you and you race past. Breathless, you reach the end of the stove. There is something on the wire rack next to the stove. Is that... a pie? How peculiar. You climb up onto the wire rack. Yes, that would be a pie.

You pull yourself up, onto the crust. Its cushy underneath your sore feet. This pie seems comfortable. You let down your guard and relax. Its a pie! Its all good! You walk around on top of it. It is enjoyable. You bounce up and down a little, like you are on a trampoline. How fun. Up and down, up and down, you really like to bounce! Wow, that was a high jump! You land back on the pie, laughing, and... WHOOOOOOOSH! "ARAH!" you yell, falling on the ground and rolling to the side to prevent the flood of hot air that just came whooshing up out of the crevasse in the crust. Its like a geyser, but without the water. And its scary. The channel of air lasts about 20 seconds, and then it stops, abruptly. You turn your head to the left. Another crevasse. You move to the side, just in time, because another fountain of air just spurted up. You scooch to the crust and lean up against it, avoiding any and all of the fissures. You observe as they sporadically explode, counting the number of seconds they last: 22. You are calm enough to notice something else: the smell. But the odor throws you off guard. Raisins? In a pie? That's preposterous. But... your nose has never let you down. You sniff again. Raisins, yes, and lemon, and... walnuts! WALNUTS! WALNUT WINGS! Oh, glory day! Oh, this is great! But, as always, a problem. The walnuts are in the pie. Under the crust. And, as you think about it, you realize it would not be a good idea to just tear into the pie, because there is probably a lot more hot air in there, and it could burn you. So. Now what? An idea hatches into your mind. What if, what if you managed to pull the wings out of one of the crevasses. Sure, they are deep, but if you could pull the wings out of the side, rather than the bottom... It might work. Yes, why not? Why not! It is dangerous to stick your hand into a chasm filled with hot air but if the hot air is not coming out... You become more confident with your idea. You move near a fissure. You wait a few moments, and hot air begins to rise. You move your head away, waiting it to be over. "20,21,22," you count out loud, and then plunge your hand down. You can feel the wrinkly raisins and something hard, oh! You grab the walnut and pull it out. Oh. This is only a piece of walnut. It couldn't be the wings. You wait until the next expulsion, then repeat the process, pulling out another chopped walnut. Again, and again, its just pieces. But you don't lose faith, you are confident this is where the walnut wings are. And you are rewarded. You pull out a walnut, it's not chopped up. You look.

The walnut looks like butterfly wings. Yes, yes, those ARE the walnut wings. You clutch the first of the Sacred Objects. And you laugh. Hysterically. Because you did it. All by yourself. Finally, you accomplished something. Its marvelous. You look around, as if receiving applause from an audience. As you turn your head from side to side, nodding to acknowledge the support of your fans, you notice something on the stove. Something that wasn't there before. Three things, actually. All white and round. Your curiousity is intrigued. You stand up, walk around the crevasses and step off the pie, and off the wire rack. You trot over to the stove. Right there, in the front. Eggs. And... what's this? Something is on one of them.
It looks like a crack. It also looks like the crack is looking at you. It looks like an eye. The EYE OF EGG? No, it couldn't be that easy. A Sacred Object couldn't be just sitting there, out in the open. You know that. But you can't deny the eye. So... It must be it. You congratulate yourself on your good luck. Hurrah! Now all that's left is to find the FLOUR FLOWER. So you roll the eye of egg on before you and clip on your walnut wings and on you go!

Sprinkle Hunt 3

You wake up, startled. A fierce brusque wind blows to the south, against your face. There is a brightness from above, shedding light on the counter, but it is devoid of warmth. You stand up, renewed, and ready to continue your journey, despite the unfriendly weather, and overall circumstances. You trudge ahead, against the wind, hardly making any headway. The wind stops for a brief moment, and you almost fall over. You look ahead, and there is a barren tundra out before you. Is that really what you crossed, last night in the dark? It looks desolate and unwelcoming. But you must press on, despite the resistance of the wind. Progress is slow, and you have to bow your head down and squint your eyes. You look up for a moment. What is that?!? A huge whirlwind, sweeping through the air, coming straight for you! Is it dust? Sand? Sugar? Noooo. You feel more wind in your face, and the debris in the air coats your face. Its flour! The storm is nearly upon you! You duck down, crouching in the fetal position on the counter, covering your face against the flour... you feel it rushing against your back... okay, the worst is over. You remain down for a few minutes more until you know that it is safe. But then you resume your walking, thankful to be out of danger, and yet still marveling that you managed to come out of that. Quickly, you begin to tire, and the wind shows no sign of stopping.... but then... it stops. What a miracle! You straighten up and survey the landscape, cocky and smiling. And then your smile fades.

Flour is scattered all across the surface of the counter, a windswept pattern of hills and mountainous terrain. The wind must have piled up the flour, and now you have to cross through the ridges. You sigh. The winds are obviously not on your side. You wish the mystic spoon could have made them nicer. But this is no time for wishful thinking and you really must continue. You walk and walk and walk, through the paths in the flour mountains, past the monotonous landscape. This is terrible. This really is. But things might be looking up because now you can see a high blue peak in the distance, one that was too far away to see earlier. Finally, after many more hours of hiking, you reach the base of the peak. It is a cylinder, but a peak nonetheless. You become dizzy just looking up at the top. A notion pops into your head: if you were at the top, you would be able to see many different things... many Sacred things... maybe even many Sacred Objects... Oho, that is one fantastic notion! But wait, there is a problem. How do you plan on reaching the top of this peak? You can't scale a smooth vertical wall without equipment or experience or whatever else you need to be able to scale a smooth vertical wall. You just can't do it. Disappointment reigns supreme... again. You sit down at the base of the peak, leaning up against the wall, looking out at the flour terrain in the tundra area. Wait a minute... wait just one minute... FLOUR! The FLOUR flower! How could you not have remembered? And, oh no, you've already past all the flour! Will you have to backtrack and search all over for a flour flower? Say it ain't so! That would be so terrible! You bash your head against the cylindral peak. You make up your mind just as your forehead begins to bleed. "NO!" you say. You seem to be angry. You begin to yell. "NO! I will NOT go back! You CANNOT make me! NO!" You turn and run off in the direction of the stove, without giving one look back.

Ketchup: A Great Saga Part 2

Alright now, we've introduced you to your life in the fridge. That's your personal life. That's your life that starts and ends in the fridge. Don't even think about dragging it across the food products. It's all about professionalism. It's all about keeping your cool. You should know that by now, young bottle. So I won't waste any more of my time. Let's get started.

Ketchup: A Great Saga

Part 2

Techniques for Food Products

Meatloaf. The most elementary of food surfaces. It's flat. It's solid. It's a blank canvas for you. What do you want to do on it? No, you can't get artistic. We as ketchup bottles must stick to technical. What was that? You feel a little fancy? You feel like breaking the rules? Do you feel like paying the consequences? Do you feel like having the food product you tainted, thrust aside out of sheer revulsion to your mess? Right. I didn't think so. Now, listen up, here is the most basic of all ketchup squirts: the blob. The blob is a thick mass of ketchup. It doesn't require much effort from you. It doesn't look very pretty either. But if you are starting out, you want to play it safe, it's ok, it's ok. The blob is perfect for dipping, so if you have french fries, its the best style to use. Next we encounter the glaze. The glaze is an even coat. Its not very pratical. But it looks good and sometimes it is bakeable. To explain further, some people but ketchup on their meatloaf and then bake it all as one and then the glaze become permanent. However, I feel that that takes away from the defining characterists of the ketchup, one of which is moistness. This next one is for those of you who feel you are super special. It's the swizzle. I know, I know. Its impressive. But it takes superb control. One mistake, and it is ruined. You cannot expect to move onto this beauty unless you've mastered the blob and the glaze. So hold up. Let's go with step by step instructions for this here technique. 1. Turn upside down. You should have that down by now. We don't want you to stand upright, bursting ketchup into the air, and staining someone's walls with lycopene. 2. Breath out. This is imperative. We don't want you to lose your cool. Just relax. 3. Let out a line of ketchup while slowly rocking back and forth, and while moving yourself forward. This is multitasking, yes. Ok. Now finish off with 4. a quick flip to the upright position. Alright everyone, that's how you do it. I wouldn't expect you to have that down on the first try. You've probably spilled all over yourself haven't you? heh. Amateur. Practice hard, maybe next time you'll get it... better. There is one rule for the swizzle: Do not use it excessively. Catsups who swizzle on their fries are considered fancy and snottish. And no one wants to think of the aristocracy while chowing down on greasy fries. The swizzle is only acceptable for foods that taste best with minimal ketchup. Alright? Alright. Thank you. Thank you for your time. Remember, you too, can become an exceptional Ketchup. It just takes time, perserverence, and rigorous discipline.

The Prodigal Power Bars

This is a story of the power bars. Around two years ago, my brother, Ben, was in leadership, in high school. He was also in cross-country. He did some event or thing, something for one of the mentioned extracurricular activities and, anyways, he brought home these power bars from school. They tasted disgusting, but they were supposed to be full of energy. Ben kept these things in his room. I don't know whether he thought he would eat them or whether he just wanted to have them around or what, but he did keep them. When he shipped off for college, the power bars got put in his closet. And there they have sat, so docilely, for two years, until a few weeks ago. We had to get into Ben's closet and they got taken out. So just imagine: a box of twenty-something power bars. They lived the high life in the high school, were surrounded by hungry teenagers. They were full of energy, what is more appealing. Wow. They were the bomb. Then. Then they got taken to a house. They sat in a box, all day, every day. Their numbers did not diminish. There was no hope for them. They just sat there. Then they get shoved in the closet, in the dark, for a year and a half. Ben comes home on vacation, probably doesn't eat any. Probably doesn't give them a second thought. (And who can blame him?) They suffer tremendous disappointment. No one cares about them. Even if anyone knew about their sorry existence, no one would care about them. That hurts them. Finally, they get taken out of the closet. Okay? That's intense. Now back to the present. I'm in a video class, at school, and my group is making a video about a magical power bar. So, when we started filming (if you want to call it that) we needed a power bar prop. I passed by Ben's room after school and there it is: A giant box of power bars. So I take, like, 5 to school. And there it is! The power bars finally came home to their first home: high school. Oh, the glory days. Now, they don't taste good at all, but, some things just don't change. They expired a year ago. But someone in my class still ate a part of one. And then spit it out into the garbage. And whenever we have to open up a power bar, it smells like an antique. I don't think the power bars notice the revulsion with which they are looked upon. To them, its being back amongst teenagers that really makes them happy. I guess the Power Bars give us a hope that really, you are never too old, or expired to return to the good times.
Note: These power bars aren't really prodigal, because, at no point in their lives have they actually been prodigal, but their story is somewhat similar to the story of the Prodigal son, from the Bible, you know. The power bars leave their home, have a rough time, then come home, like the son. So that's why I call them prodigal, even if they aren't.

Sprinkle Hunt 2

We left off as you had just finished talking with cookie. You learned that you needed to go east. And so east you go. You walk along the counter, shuffling your feet along the smooth surface. You encounter a few monuments along your trek, such as Toaster, and Coffee Maker. They tower over your weak little stature and you feel small and insignificant amonst such machines. You walk in a steady direction, but so far, you have not met with any food product who can assist you, or any other clues to the missing sprinkles. Far ahead in the distance you can see the wall, a deadend to the counter. Was compass cookie's advice really that accurate? What if he was just lying about knowing which way to go? How could a conglomeration of flour, sugar, and eggs glow, anyways? How could you have been so stupid to believe him??? You almost punch yourself; its so humiliating to have trusted a cookie. You look around. You realize that you really don't want to go east at all, you want to go south. So you change directions and take a turn, ignoring the path that compass cookie set you on. The light above seems to have faded. You can hardly see where you are going. You want to stop because you have been walking a long time now. But then you remember your sprinkles, and you speed up, almost running. Suddenly, you feel a bump under your feet, and then they fly out from under you! You are falling through the air now, flailing about, unable to feel anything around you. When will this stop? What will become of you? Your life begins to flash before your eyes when- OOMPH! Something swoops up from under you, rescuing you. You don't feel anyone, though. It seems as if... as if gravity has stopped... or maybe... wait, you feel your hair flowing in one direction. That's very odd. It must be... wind. A strong wind, or air current, or something like that must be carrying you. WHUP! The wind stopped, dropping you back on the counter. You are dazed, and so you think you must be hallucinating when you hear a noise like a peg leg hitting the counter. A faint glow comes from the distance and suddenly... a wooden spoon hobbles up. She peers at you with psychic eyes. How peculiar... this must be the mystic spoon that compass cookie had mentioned. He must not have been quite the liar you thought, about that, anyway. "For what do you seek?" says the spoon. You are taken aback by her raspy voice. "I seek my sprinkles," you reply. She hobbles up closer to you and her piercing glare makes you feel somewhat uncomfortable, so you squirm. However, the spoon does not understand your subtle hint, and remains, still, very close to you. "You did not follow the cookie's advice... did you now? DID YOU?" The mystical wooden spoon rears up to her full height, intimidating you, and making you fidget even more. "no" you manage to say, though it costs you great effort. "Then you must make an even longer journey to find what you seek. Your lack of confidence in the compass cookie has cost you your time. You should have listened to him, YOU SHOULD HAVE STUCK TO THE EAST... but now... now, if you do not resue your precious sprinkles, the blame is fully upon you. The captor of your sprinkles will take advantage of your weak nature. He now has time to lock them up before you reach him and the only way to release your sprinkles from eternal captivity is to collect the Sacred Objects. These Objects are of the indigenous peoples of the kitchen. They have certain powers... I have spent my whole life studying these powers. Only the Sacred Objects have the ability to truly help you defeat the kidnapper of your sprinkles. Find them, take them, learn from them. Now, to see which of the Objects you must seek, peer deep into the crystal ball nature of my wooden spoon head.

"Peer deep within... past the clouds and haze of the future... now... what do you see...?" You peer deep. You look, and you see... a flying figure... a cracked eye... a flower... You tell the wooden spoon of these things. "Ah..." she says. "The WALNUT WINGS. The EYE OF EGG. The FLOUR FLOWER. You must find these things. You must take them. You must use them to defeat the evil and rescue your sprinkles. Once you have them, continue east. Do not waver. Do not be dissuaded. I summoned the winds to save you when you turned the wrong way. I cannot do that again. No one else can help you now. You are all alone." As the mystic speaks, she walks backwards, and suddenly, she is gone. You feel sad, and lonely, and ashamed that you doubted the cookie. The quest for your sprinkles has turned into such a huge deal. Now you must find these, what? 'Sacred' Objects? What is that about? You consider ignoring the mystic. No, no, that would not be wise. You need all the help you can get and there is a slight possibility that these Objects can help you. You decide to take a short rest before you continue, however. You lie down on the cold hard counter, and sigh, "Thank you, mystic wooden spoon." And then you drift off to sleep...

Sprinkle Hunt

Its Saturday night, and you are baking in the kitchen. There is one lone flickering overhead light on and it barely illuminates the recipe. A solitary figure, you sift the powdered sugar necessary to make the frosting for your Fairy Drop cookies. Spread out on the counter are the many other ingredients, such as almond extract, vanilla extract, butter, and milk. The food coloring and sprinkles are set out nearby. You hear something. You turn around, scanning the room. There is nothing there. Curious, but you must have been imagining. The distraction has ruined your focus. You glance back at the recipe, reading the next step. You need the butter, so you look across the counter and... something is different. The butter... it's there, but it should be between the milk and the sprinkles... OH NO! the sprinkles are missing! WHAT? How could this have happened? You are astounded, frozen with shock. You frantically search the kitchen, throwing open cabinents and ripping open boxes of wheat thins. Where could the sprinkles be? Gaaa! You've checked the entire room, but no sprinkles! Wait... do you hear that? Listen closely... a small whispering sound. You can't locate its source, but as you listen you are able to distinguish certain words. "follow... follow the sugar trail... the sugar..." What? A cryptic message?? What good is that? No, wait... Look!A sugar trail! Follow it! Follow it and see what will follow! You must find the thief and seek out the fate of the sprinkles! Don't be scared; you must avenge your sprinkles! Now onward! You follow the trail. The sugar pieces glow luminescent in the dim light, creating a haunting picture. Will this path ever end? It goes on and on, for miles it seems. You grow tired, and the sugar grates on your feet. The path finally curves around the blue container and brings you to the stove. It doesn't continue. Dejected, you look around. There doesn't seem to be anything around but the cookie sheet with raw cookies on it, the ones you had placed there before any of this happened, forever ago. You go over the cookies, thinking maybe you have overlooked an important clue. You sit down next to a cookie, and sigh, because it really does look hopeless. You feel the warmth of the heated oven underneath your feet, and it feels nice, but not nice enough to stop you from crying. "Oh, little cookie, I wish you could help me!" you say in desperation.

"Oh but I can," the cookie responds. You jump up in surprise, gaping. "What?!?" "Yes," says the little tyke. "Not only am I a Fairy Drop Cookie but, since you have stamped me with one of those crazy food stamp mechanisms/utensils that don't really have names, I am also a... COMPASS COOKIE... and I can totally help you find your way." You are overjoyed. You dance up and down, because you seem to have so many friends that are willing to help you! How great! "Well, little one, how will you help me? What do I need to do?" The cookie has an immediate response. "I have four points, north east west south. One of my points will glow with the light of a million moons, highlighting the right way for you. You simply need to press your hand in my center, and think, very intensely, about what you have lost. That's it." You do as the compass cookie has instructed, pondering the sprinkles and all the great hopes you had for it, as well as all the great times you had spent with sprinkles, like at Christmas when you decorated the special holiday desserts. Weren't those good times? Oh! One of the points of Compass cookie is glowing. Wow, that is bright, and... whoa! You have to cover your eyes, the light is so blinding. "You must really want what has been taken from you," the cookie says. "I have never glowed as bright as that, in all the minutes of my existence. Your way is certain. You must go east. I have other advice for you, too. Find wooden spoon. Wooden Spoon is a mystical utensil and she will help you if ever you need more assistance. I wish you the best of luck in your quest." You thank cookie, but now you must be on your way. Continue to the east!

Apple and His Hair

This apple slice has peanut butter hair. He's full of attitude and his leaning stance is highly masculine. He probably rides a motorcycle and, if he had hands, they would most likely be oily from 1. fixing up cars in the garage or, 2. fixing up his greasy hair. His name is James because he looks like a mixture of Jimmy Neutron and James Dean.

Anyways, I just thought the apple looked cool. It must be the hair.

This other apple slice is tough to figure out. I would leave it out of this post but I think it would feel neglected and sad, so I think I had better include it with James.

Cookie Commotion

Heyyyy! We's cookiez are throwin some crazee partay on the table next ts'day. We's gonna have some great times. Lasts times we's had some party, snick'doodle towdally fell off onto the chair, man, it was crazay. He's had to gets some reparational surgery in the crazy house since then. We's went to go visits 'im dis one time and like, its wazzis insanity. Yeahh... But likes, we's gonna have a DJ from the fridge comes and shakeses us up. I think Choc-Chip booked his sec'nd cus, Choc-syrUP. He's one hard partiers, I tellses you, man. He plays them tuneses from lawk, ts'day til the nexted ts'day. Maybes even we gets liek, Frostthe-ing to come and we's can dip in him fah some extras recreational stuffs. Sugah's gots some good relationships with Frostthe-ing, you know hows them sugar cookiez gets with their frostin', man. Raisin'daRoof might even stops us by, and dose raisin cookees sure are squareses some timeses. Da only fooles we's not invitin' are dose fricken stores-bought, fact'ry-made cookees. Deys some idiots. Deys don't know some how to partay. Deys don't dance til the lite. Deys are 'ristocratic. Deys are snobses. We's don't want nuthin' to do wid dem. But its gonna be some greats timeses if you hits us up at da party dis ts'day. 'member, is at da table. You's come, you's enjoys youself. Us cookeez, we's don't discrim'nate. We's are just likin' to partay up da kistchen. Pieces outs nows, man.

Monty and his Slices

This is a loaf of pound cake. This is a very distraught loaf of pound cake. His name is Monty. As with all cakes, he was pregnant with slices. Monty could not decide what fate would befall his pieces. Would they be an afternoon snack? After dinner dessert? An unhealthy breakfast? Perhaps they would be beautiful, or maybe hideous. Monty was worried. He wanted his slices to be amazing tasting. He wanted people to eat them. He wanted his slices to make someone happy. He did not want some slacker slices who sit in the Tupperware container all week long, accumulating bacteria, age, and even mold. They would disgrace his name. His reputation would be tarnished. As Monty sat on the wire rack, he pondered the future. He glanced over at the bowl next to him. What is this? Strawberries? In winter? Monty was overjoyed. Strawberries were promising. Not only did they look fashionably fabulous, but they were tasty. His pieces going to have many blessings and not only would they look nice, if the cutting went well, but-OH! Monty inaudibly groaned in pain. The knife! He was getting cut!The first piece was thin, too thin. It was too premature. Would it still be eaten? And the first piece, too! This did not look well, it forebode tragedy. Monty was almost crazy with anxiety. But, okay, the next piece was cut, and it wasn't so puny. It was actually sort of gorgeous. The next three pieces were great, too. And then, oh, the knife cut a tiny sliver of a piece off, a crooked sliver. What? Monty was confused. Who would want such a small piece? Now Monty saw, the piece was being added to his stunted firstborn. He chuckled in relief. He looked over at the nearby table. There seemed to be a commotion. A sibling rivalry! One of his pieces was competing with the other in some sort of beauty contest. He watched.

One piece was Clarisse. She was had strawberries scattered on her surface and around her plate. It was very artistic, or so thought Monty. She even had a sprig of greenery sprouting out of her top. Monty blushed to think of the frivolity, but it did his heart proud to see how pretty she looked. Clarisse looked very appetizing and Monty was astounded that she was really, at heart, just a piece of pound cake, like himself. She looked like she was a gourmet creation, and not fraught of humble beginnings.



The other piece was Emily. She was rather plain, and her strawberries were heaped in a rainbow-like arc over her surface. Her crust was a very becoming golden brown and the juice of the strawberries on her was a nice touch. Emily was a humble piece, and she did not really care about superficiality and fashion. It was odd that she was even in the beauty pageant competition at all. But Monty was proud of her effort to be nice-looking, even if it failed.




Monty watched as the winner of the competition was announced. It was Clarisse. It was no surprise to him, and he was happy for Clarisse, but he was sad for Emily, too. They were finally taken away to be eaten, and Monty was happy that his pieces had achieved the glory of being devoured. He was shoved into a Tupperware not soon after and, while it was sad to be put away, his fears for his slices were also put to rest, with the belief that pound cake, ugly or beautiful, cannot help but be eaten.

The Man in the Moon is in the Milk

I made my oatmeal this morning, put some brown sugar and jam on it, and then poured some milk into the bowl, to cool it down. I took my bowl over to the table, and looked down, and there he was! The man in the moon, present in his crescent shape, with an eye, a nose, and a small prim mouth. It was great. Only I was still half asleep so the greatness of it didn't hit me until after school, when I reviewed the photographical evidence. But now I'm jazzed. As an added bonus, if you tilt your head to the left, you can see a sort of demonic goblin in the jam. He's got 2 eyes, the left one's kind of skinny and long, and he also has a triangle nose in the middle. And a wierd shaped mouth. But he detracts from the glory of the man in the moon and his face isn't as intricate or beautifully lunar. Anyways, its great.

The Tumgos

Can you see the Indian in the photograph? He rides on a horse that leaps into the air, the feather of his headress flying in the wind. He is one of the most elusive persons in the West. He is Chief GreySwirl, not to be confused with GreySquirrel, and is chief of the tribe Tumgo. Chief GreySwirl is a firm believer in the culinary arts and has formulated a strict regime for his people. The women cook their culture-rich food in large pots during the day, while the men go out hunting for fresh meat or, more often, for recipes. Sometimes they steal these recipes from neighboring tribes, which really gets their fellow Natives up at arms. There have been some close calls, where some of the Tumgos have not been so stealthy and have almost been caught. The victim tribe runs out with knives or spoons, to chase after those tricky Tumgos. But the Tumgos usually always manage to escape, cookbook, index card, or printout in hand. One time they were not so lucky. Chief GreySwirl sent out RedDirt, a young thief trainee, to nab a Betty Crocker Cookbook just outside a teepee. But RedDirt was not so swift, and just as he grabbed the corner of the book, an enraged and possessive squaw rushed at him, knocking him over. She punched his eye out, leading to serious cornea problems, and causing RedDirt to cry. But he quickly manned up and ripped out a few pages of the cookbook, making a hurried getaway. The squaw brought her complaints, as well as her damaged cookbook, to her chief, and he declared war on the Tumgos. When Chief GreySwirl heard this, he was not bothered in the least. For the Tumgos worship a series of culinary gods and goddesses, deities he was sure would not fail them. Their deities are based after foods and ingredients, the sort of stuff you might find in the kitchen on a busy baking day, with lots of different recipes in progress (which is every day for the Tumgos!). One such of these, a very important and superior goddess, is Queen Kustardania. She is a fancy goddess, because she is a mixture of eggnog, egg, and rum. The Tumgos revere her because of the eggnog component, and you can only get eggnog at one time of year, making it a very special ingredient. The rum part is respected too. Anyways, the Tumgos seriously worship Queen Kustardania. They all know that she would never let them down. So Chief GreySwirl was not worried. He knew that with due sacrifices and ample war chants, this war would be a Tumgo victory. The women of the tribe prepared the best foods for Queen Kustardania, cakes, pies, pastries, soups, meats, salads, casseroles, souffles, pancakes, etc. etc. They set them down before a custard pie, meant to represent the queen, and then burned the foods, and ate the charred remains. The next day, the war began. It was a tough fight, with much stabbing of forks, thwacking of spoons, bashing of cookbooks over heads, and throwing of bowls. Finally, the resounding clash of cookie sheets echoed in the distance, signalling an end to the battle. Many of the Indians ended up wounded, and a few died. It was a somber time for both tribes. When the two tribes finally counted up their tally of unscathed survivors, the Tumgos had more and therefore really had succeeded. It was a joyous occasion. The opposing tribe slunk home with heads hung low, and the Tumgos pranced to their home with pockets full of recipe cards. Chief GreySwirl was adorned with a new feather, and Queen Kustardania was celebrated for days on end. The Tumgos were free to plunder recipes again and they were free to follow under Chief GreySwirl's impressive leadership and his culinary lifestyle until death. And so Chief GreySwirl and his tribe of the Tumgos continue to inspire us today, with their valiant cookery and all its pursuits.

Ketchup: A Great Saga

YOU, as a bottle of ketchup, do you think you're set for life? Do you think you can just waltz right out of the refrigerator and be the best condiment in the kitchen? Do you think your life is going to be easy? Well don't think, KNOW. Know what you are going to do when you leave the refrigerator because there are many paths for you to take. I've prepared this seminar and instructional memoir for all you ignorant bottles out there. I know the ropes, I'm an emptied and rinsed ketchup bottle, all ready for the recycling bin. I didn't get to ultimate ketchup fulfillment and satisfaction by chilling in the fridge. So pay close attention. Because the life of ketchup is one to be revered.

Ketchup: A Great Saga

Part 1

The Early Months

The journey to become a famed and honored Ketchup, known in some regions as Catsup, is one that begins at the bottle.

36 ounces, one of 57 varieties, Ketchup has potential. And the ideal ketchup bottle will scream potential. He needs to stand proud and erect with his bold and statement-making label. He begins as a full bottle, firm and pristine. When ketchup is first slapped right on the grocery store shelf, the fun ends. Factory time is over. Ketchup needs to catch the eye of every customer in the store, and hold that eye contact for at least 3 seconds. The goal of a shelved ketchup is only to be bought. And when he is bought, the real work begins. From the moment he first feels the chill of the refrigerator, he should know the condiment life is exactly right for him. Surveying his habitat with expentant optimism, Ketchup should look upon all his roommates with a friendly attitude. Even if a friendly attitude and genial smile aren't enough. "Its a dog-eat-dog world in there. Dairy products going bad, the ashamed bottles at the back of the refrigerator, the mix of personalities, well, its intense," one Ketchup, who prefers to remain anonymous, told us. Her experience in the refrigerator was particularily dismal. Tempermental containers are a huge part of life in any refrigerator and it is important that as a civilized, mature ketchup bottle, you ignore any overdramatic situation the other bottles/containers get into. Life in the refrigerator is tough, but it is a small sacrifice on the altar of acting a hero to hot dogs, french fries, scambled eggs, hamburgers and further varieties of meat products everywhere. Join us for Part 2: Techniques for Food Products.