Call Me Martha

This past weekend I had a lekker homestay in Ocean View, a coloured community that was forcibly moved to this area during the apartheid. I’ll talk about that later; first, let’s discuss me being domestic.

Let me begin by saying me baking isn’t a shocker. I both know how to and like to bake. It’s a gene that apparently skipped my Mama Bear (she claims), but not me.

So going into the homestay it was recommended we bring a gift. I mean, 100 US university students invaded these people’s houses and they welcomed us with opened arms. I think they deserved more than just a small gift. Nonetheless, I had to go armed with something. Some people had brought things from home…jam, maple syrup, live bald eagles, etc. I, however, hadn’t brought something from Toledo (snow? a piece of glass? a mudhen?), so I decided to make the most all-American treat there is: chocolate chip cookies.

Easy, right? Throw some sugar, flour, chocolate chips, and love together and you’re done.

Wrong.

Friday afternoon, I started off my hitting up Shop-Rite (think Soviet Giant, but worse). I got everything I needed, including measuring cups, bicarbonate soda and chocolate bars (since chocolate chips don’t exist here). I headed back to my flat armed with my ingredients and a last-minute recipe from my friend Brittany (shout-out!).

If you couldn’t guess by the fact that I just bought measuring cups, it’s important to note here that my flat is completely under equipped with pots, pans, dishware, etc. I realized this yet again on Friday when I pulled out my one bowl that is larger than a cereal bowl, but not by much.

So the multiple-hour baking process went just as it should. Softening the butter in the pre-heating oven. Smushing the butter and sugar together with a fork because I don’t have beaters. Making chocolate chunks the only way that makes sense- pounding frozen chocolate bars with a can opener on my kitchen floor. Mixing the dough in two bowls. Using my hands. Making more of a mess than I normally would have. Baking on one questionable cookie sheet. Overheating my flat. Burning the first half dozen cookies because 160 degrees C is way too hot to bake cookies or 160 degrees on my oven is actually hotter than that (still unclear). Wishing Grandma could teleport to Mowbray to help me.

At the end of the day, however, I had some pretty tasty chocolate-chip “biscuits.”