Every once in a while, inspiration strikes. When it does, it tends to leave a bruise because my skin is RIDICULOUSLY sensitive; and contemplating this unnecessary violence led me to the sudden realization that I needed to step up my game when it comes to acquisition of culinary excellence.
I decided that as soon as I finish zero to hero (and then get caught up on all those necessary things I’ve been ignoring such as laundry and cleaning), I would learn some baking basics. As a previous post evidences, my culinary expertise is lacking. But it’s never too late to learn, right? Then, as soon as I mastered a few pinterest-worthy recipes, I would start a females-only baking club with the delightful snarktastic (and horrifically socially unacceptable) name “Battered Women.”
Plans were in full swing, (even including anticipation of “The Battered Woman’s Cookbook” featuring batter-based recipes along with quotations about revenge and tips for serving it either hot or cold) and I was lost in a haze of eager anticipation until one of my friends proudly announced, “I want to be a battered woman!”
Though some amazingly cute “Battered Women” aprons could be marketed to hardcore kitchen gurus and hobbyist homemakers alike, it just sounds REALLY bad when the desire to be a battered woman is expressed free of context.
So much for that idea.