My point is--our grandmothers could probably have pulled out a concrete fence post base by hand without a tool. They may have had flabby bellies but their upper body strength had to have been awesome. I thought I had some decent arm strength going after several years of playing keyboard at the church I used to go to, which required me to practice every day since I played every week. It was fairly rigorous work. Plus, I type every day. There's something to be said about moving your shoulders and arms around while you
But, but the last two days of making 900 thousand cookies and shit from scratch may have been one of my stupider endeavors. Not as stupid as when I made rommegrot ( I lost the link, but just google Norwegian pudding and you'll see the death-defying cream/butter/milk concoction in all its glory) one year using the wooden weirdly shaped beater that was an antique from my family. It took me 75 hours of stirring because I refused to use/didn't have a mixer.
Whatever--creaming sugar and Crisco (lard! lard! lard!) for 12 dozen gingersnaps and 5 dozen Snickerdoodles will get your blood flowing. Especially when it's nonstop since you have to fill up some gift bags for co-workers because you KNOW they'll give you something.
Those cake balls? They taste just fine. They look like crap. But, I don't care. Call me the Picasso of cake balls. Paula Deen can kiss my bony ass. Well, and the fact I couldn't find confectioner's coating so had to use chocolate chips and baking chocolate. And the dipping, twirling and placing of the precious balls didn't go quite according to plan. And I got tired after the first 3 million balls. Balls can kiss my bony ass.
And, the new cookie sheet I bought, one of three, was too large for the oven. That sheet can kiss my bony ass.
My fingernails are destroyed. The house smells divine.
All I have left are lemon bars. They may have to kiss my bony ass.
I'm going to go break something.