Friday, February 8, 2013

On Your Skid Mark....

I love to drive fast - always have and I blame my parents.  They didn't speed everywhere, but never believed in wasting perfectly good forward momentum...they would race to a red light or stop sign and brake at the last second, and I don't think we ever realized that wasn't what normal people do until we had been driving on our own and got back into the car with one of them, muffling a high-pitched scream at the first couple stops.  Handsome Strangers finger impressions were forever imbedded in our car dashboards early in our marriage - he still is not entirely comfortable with my driving style, but I like to point out to him that he's had several "Make your mother go gray in an instant" vehicular incidents that he should never have walked away from unscathed while I have had nothing but a couple minor fender benders.  Except the head on with my neighbor on the driveway quite a few years ago which my insurance company deemed 100% her fault because she was on the wrong side of the road on a blind corner.  And I still went to work that morning, and did not total a car AND a combine at the same time.

Poor people have limited options for vehicles, so we drove a motley collection back in the day - one of my best finds combing the local paper's "Auto's for Sale" ads was HS's prized 68 RS Camaro for $ was a giant POS, which now we call a "project car", but at the time we had nothing else so he made it run and I drove it.  Rough and with more than a few safety issues (Fred Flinstone holes rusted in the floor), that sucker FLEW and I was more than happy to take it down the local runway, even with kids strapped in car seats in the back.  Yeah, I know....but back then we did a lot of stupid things we weren't informed by every billboard, newspaper and fb article would kill us.  And I should be driving Nascar anyway - if you question that just try to keep up with me on my way to work in the morning.

One of the items on the "Needs fixin/can't afford it" was a broken motor mount.  You had to be careful and feather the gas when starting out, or the forward momentum of the car would cause the engine to lift, which caused the throttle spring to stretch waaaaaay out, sucking the gas pedal to the floor and sending you on your merry way like a rocket ship on crack.  I was quite pregnant with Son #2, and I believe both of the other kids were strapped in the back while we sat in the local gas station getting $5 worth of gas I had to dig under the seats and scrape green pennies out of the console to afford.  I paid for my gas, started her up and lightly tapped on the gas.  Did I mention this procedure was touchy?  The gas  station I was at used to sell milk in had a covered pump area with a brick building on one side, and had a carwash directly behind it.  To exit you had to creep around a one lane alley between the building and the carwash, and when she took off that day, all I could do was hang on, crank the wheel, and say a prayer in that nano second that no one was on the other side of that building.

I cut a perfect cookie from the pump to the other side of the building, and was standing on the brake with both feet and my butt off the seat (no mean feat when you're 8 months pregnant) when the motor finally dropped and she stopped.  I still don't know why I didn't wet my pants, but could not speak for a moment when the attendant who had pumped my gas ran up to my window with eyes as big as hubcaps and yelled "Are you OKAY??!!"....I was still trying to remember how to breathe.  There was a perfect "C" of rubber on the blacktop at that gas station for a long time....and SOMEONE got his arse handed to him on a platter with still shaking hands when he got home from work that day.  The kids were totally unfazed...they probably just thought they were riding with Grandma.

Speaking of cookies, I have not posted for so long I figured I would throw you a bone and give you one that is naughty and delicious with no regard for calories/points/the way your pants fit for the next week or so until you eat lettuce for a couple days and work out every minute you're not sleeping/working/driving.  Yes, they are that good...but be careful, right out of the oven they will hurt you if you aren't VERY careful...molten caramel will do that.  As will a broken motor mount...

Rolo Cookies

Found this in a search for some different Christmas cookies...but it's not really holiday-ish, just decadent and special.  They are also quite huge...the other day I saw a bag of mini Rolos and think I DID wet my pants thinking about making these baby sized - but regardless, they are totally worth having to peel the foil off a whole bag of Rolos.

1 C. sugar
1 C. brown sugar
1 C. butter
2 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. baking soda
2-1/2 C. flour
3/4 C. cocoa (I, of course, use my lovely dark cocoa)
13 oz. bag Rolos, unwrapped (DANGER...)
Sugar for rolling

Blend sugars and butter until fluffy, add eggs and vanilla and blend well.  Beat in dry ingredients until a soft dough forms.  You can use two cookie scoops of this dough, press one flat, put a Rolo on it and then press the other on top, sealing the edges of the top and bottom dough pieces around the Rolo.  Roll in sugar and put on cookie sheet, leaving LOTS of room - 6 per pan because they spread out to be pretty large, and will be fairly flat when baked.  Bake at 375 for 7-10 minutes...just check the divots in the middle to make sure they don't look too wet.  Let them cool a couple minutes, then CAREFULLY remove them to a rack - if they break they will make a mess, and you will probably wonder how sanitary it is to be licking caramel off the counter/stove/floor/your slippers.  And they really will burn you if you eat them too soon...BE CAREFUL!  Still warm the caramel still oozes a bit, and even stone cold it has a soft and chewy quality inside an intensely chocolatey and fudgy shell - they are TRULY spectacular!

Enjoy, and don't say I didn't warn you - eat too many and you won't be able to squeeze into the Hershey's Rolo pace car for the Indy 500 lbs.  And be careful out there; you never know when a crazy preggo is gonna come flying outta nowhere to leave skid marks across your spare tire.