I have the most incredible, wonderful news readers: I've got about eight days of work left. EIGHT DAYS mother fuckers. Sixy-four hours of time left on my sentence and then I never have to set another foot in that maudit place again! It's over two weeks, but still... pretty damn sweet. So sweet that I decided, that even though I've been through hell the last year, and I'm nursing a slow-recovery to this awful cold business, we could all use a little more sweetness.
I've baked over a hundred of David Lebovitz's chocolate chip miracles. Unfortunately for my ass, they're delicious, and I feel myself slipping into a sugar coma from taste-testing. But the real miracle was that a little bit of American spirit still thrives in this city. Like all amazing stories, mine begins with tragedy.
I woke up & then promptly went back to bed for about four hours. Felt damn good, gotta love Sundays. When I roused from my serial-napping it was almost 4pm. I mosied on into the kitchen to start cookin' when I realized ... the world was going to end.
I had cookies to bake for my going away party tomorrow, and, as was typical with my luck lately -- I was all out of baking soda! Baking soda. Worth about $2. On every single god-damn shelf in the states, but I'm here. Where it's available in three stores in the entire city. Only one of which was open on a Sunday.
There's that "levure" stuff, but I've barely the time to make cookies, let alone test-run them, so I couldn't be sure that would work. I had a rep to live up to here, and wasn't prepared to risk it after so many successful batches. (Just takes one to earn your "crappy cook" label, and my chances for redemption were nil.)
But all hope wasn't lost. There exists a little piece of America here, it's called: Thanksgiving.
On a cute side street in the Marais, this heavenly store holds a lot of pricey, but rare goods ripe for the picking. Including my baking soda, thank you very much! A lovely woman with a very thick American accent rang me up and in just under an hour, I was almost home triumphantly holding the powdered gold.
Thank GOD for expats. Or my colleagues would've had to deal w/ that Pepperidge Farms crap, and I couldn't have that.
G'night & sweet chocolate-chip dreams :)