If you buy it on createspace (an Amazon affiliate), I make (n)oodles of more dough. 292 pages of sustenance, and very little to do with cooking. Published last December, I have yet to sell one. A November royalty check ($5) from the sale of this book will pay for both a writer’s homemade pasta dinner and local spiritual enema.
From the back cover:
Here is a book of autobiographical essays from a man placed out of century by a malfunctioning time machine, yet needing a culture, so building his own. It is replete with reactions to the present day land he is marooned on, and interspersed with recipes which will bring peace to spiritual vagabonds via the art of fine cookery.
The author is glad he appeared in a wealthy nation of easy food and time galore to repair machine, and hopes others struggling in similar space-time continuum can use book to temporarily escape cockamamie culture. Or at best make a fine meal at any hour while caught in dimensional exile.
This volume is for the physically young and old alike provided they suffer from atomically produced disassociation. It should be used as a tool for the unfortunate poor yet pleasing neurotic to connect back or forward to the era of his or her choice. Set the stock to simmer on low and find a free spot to read and wonder.
A piece of the book to whet the appetite:
Two Types of Individuality
One is spiritual, one material. The material hastens the final blow to humanity via the runaway, atom-smashing train of consumerism. Its tracks were laid by the politics of blind greed and extra comfort for the very few.
The spiritual boob the world over wants lustily for an adequate supply of rice cakes, water, and two strong legs to carry his skin sack burden to eternity.
I have proof of a desolation at full throttle:
The Way of the Pilgrim vs. the television sitcom, “Friends”. Perhaps more than a hundred million people the world over can explain the concept of “Friends.” And since a majority already share an identity with actors who covet fashionable boredom and Pottery Barn Inc., would-be converts of this individuality type are expanding rapid-exponentially. Being born again anywhere onto the runaway train is actually cross boxcar individualism. That is, you can be a lone lover of corn cakes, coca-cola, the Sermon on the Mount, a 1968 Chevelle, the TV show “Friends,” most Keebler products, Maxwell House Coffee, or air travel to Baltimore, etc., and nobody asks anything meaningful from you when all insanities meet for poker in the club car.
Maybe twelve of these hundred million people have read about the individual, private joy in The Way of the Pilgrim. A story about continuous prayer while walking across a wild Russian landscape. Finding a friendly villager in a snowstorm, who shares his bread, and offers a bed beside the stove. Soldiers pummeling his skull until it cracks open, and he’s left for dead smiling up at an invisible friend Jesus. Thanking him.
Of these twelve readers, maybe one will have satori, leaping from the caboose of the runaway train. Yet no matter how pure his thoughts, and the blowing snow in the storm, while the blizzard rages, Chandler, Monica and sexy Rachel the demon wayfarer will have pressed their material pillow of memory over his freezing face.
He will die of hypothermia while dreaming of a Joey joke and Ross gaff to the glorious church bell tune of “Smelly Cat”. Audience applause please.
I know Keebler. I will for the rest of my life. That crime was committed long ago, by the time I had reached six summers. On a string of autumn Saturday mornings, some invisible cartel of brainwashing market scientists snuck into my parent’s parlor, stealthily drilled into my skull, and shot a microscopic package of soft cookies into my brain. A thirty second covert procedure, Saturday after Saturday after Saturday.
By winter the cupboard never lacked for processed chewy, chocolate wonderment. I grew kid boobs.
Technology is Satan on a fast train. Militarily it has subjugated a living, breathing planet under its might. Medically it has treated the symptoms of its own industrial disease. Morally it has created a mass class of individual comfort devotees with infinite purchasing power. The Evolution King dealt his subjects a fatal blow one Thursday night back in 1994. Who knew that twenty-two minutes of fun with “Friends” and a bag of Pecan Sandies would unleash the wrath of portents from our collective corporate memory. It took up a steel bar of rage, five hundred years in the making, and smashed the train’s brakes to smithereens.
Next stop: Armageddon. Please be seated and chew quietly on your cookies. Audience applause please.
Throop Troll House® Cookies
Preheat oven to 375º.
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
Beat on medium speed until light and fluffy
8 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
½ cup sugar
½ cup light brown sugar
Add and beat until well combined:
1 large egg
¼ teaspoon salt
1½ teaspoons vanilla
Stir the flour mixture into the butter mixture until well blended. Stir in:
1 cup chocolate chips
¾ cup chopped walnuts or pecans (optional)
Drop the dough with spoon onto cookie sheet, spacing about 2 inches apart. Bake one sheet at a time until cookies are slightly
colored on top and edges browned, 8 to 10 minutes. Rotate sheet halfway through baking. Remove and let stand for 2 minutes.
Transfer cookies to racks to cool.