X-Rated Cookies.

You know how it is, it’s the start of the middle of the week (shut up), two days before payday, and you’re craving cookies or, as we call them on this side of the lake, biscuits. I was craving CHOCOLATE cookies but, guess what? All I had was cocoa which, let’s face it, is the culinary equivalent of celebrating Christmas with your alternatively religious relatives, (‘Where’s your tree?’ ‘In the backyard, where it’s supposed to be…heathen’).

I LOOOOOVE chocolate, and when I’m denied it, whomever has the misfortune to be around me invariably finds them self an unwilling contestant on Don’t Poke The Pre-Menstrual Bear! (Side note: I would REALLY love this to be an actual thing. It would be kind of like Family Feud, except instead of guessing surveyed responses to lame questions, the family members would try to talk to the PMB without using trigger words like Time Management and Hormonal). Amusing (and oddly satisfying) digression aside, I made do with what I had and the results were surprisingly delicious. Too delicious to share, really, although The Boy managed to abscond with five of the lovely morsels, the sneaky little…

Anyway, this recipe is, for me at least, the holy trinity of cookery. It’s cheap, a trained monkey on mescaline could make it, and it’s high five, gooey-grinned, roll-off-me-now-I’m-done delicious.

In hindsight, that last analogy was ill-conceived. Oh well.

Do you want to know the best part about this recipe? It doesn’t matter if you fuck it up! In fact, it’s even better if you do! Say, for example, you pull the cookies out of the oven a little too early and consequently they’re still too gooshey to legally be called cookies, that’s cool! Just plop a couple of scoops of ice cream into a bowl and dump that hot mess on top! (I’m not doing well with the food/bodily function correlations here am I)? Say you take them out a little too late (not Chernobyl late or anything, just late enough for them to be more crunchy than they should be), no worries! Just go Postal on those little bastards and fold them through some vanilla ice cream that you’ve pre-softened (or just left in a bowl to melt a while — we can’t all be Nigella, now can we)?

¼ cup of cocoa

1 hand full marshmallows

½ cup of butter

½ cup brown sugar

½ cup plain/all purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

Okay folks, this is as simple as it gets. Pre heat your oven to 180 degrees (or 350, in the rest of the world).

Bung everything but the flower into a small saucepan and cook over a low heat, stirring constantly, until everything is mixed together and roughly resembles slightly stretchy cake batter. This will take patience, but please persevere with the stirring, lest your marshmallows stretch too much, (you know, like a Geordie Shore cast member doing Shakespeare at the Globe kind of a stretch). Turn off stove/take pan off the heat.

In a bowl, sift together the flour and baking powder, (or, if you’re anything like me, just mix the powder through the flour with a butter knife). Add the flour mixture to the batter and mix through with a metal spoon until it looks roughly like cookie dough, (funnily enough).

Line a baking tray with baking paper. Take teaspoonfuls of the dough, or tablespoonfuls for larger cookies, and drop them onto the tray, spacing them about a half a thumb’s length apart, (and yes, that’s a real measurement…piss off).

Bake in the oven for about ten minutes, (check on them after eight if you’re worried your oven might be hotter than mine), until just solid and lightly browned on the bum. The goal here is to produce molten, chewy cookies; the kind that will warrant you repeatedly praising a deity you may or may not actually believe in while still remaining fully clothed.

Or go ahead and shed that bourgeois clothing and enjoy your food as nature intended, if that’s your thing. Who the hell am I to judge? But if you decide to have some grown-up fun with the cookies, please do me a favour and keep it to yourself. A prankster has already ruined jam for me, and believe me when I say that you do not want to be the one to put me off chocolate. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

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