Potato Chip Cookies part 1: A New Dope

Our lovely wife, Wife, once worked as a systems administrator for two textile plants in Pumpkintown, SC. There was a cookie-baking contest there back in the day (2002) and Wife ended up with a copy of the winning recipes. Upon compiling, folding, and spindling our Vast Tome of recipes, we inadvertently (and inadvisedly) found a recipe for "Potato Chip Cookies." Obviously a winner (though probably in violation of the Geneva Convention), and obviously brutal (gastro-intestinally speaking), we had to make these "cookies." The recipe called for 1/2 cup of crushed potato chips. We used the Julia Child method:




We were going to select Lay's potato chips, but discovered that Ruffles are made by the same company in the same hole: Plano, TX. Did you know that Texas once tried to outlaw "sexy cheerleading?" Honestly, if we outlawed everything someone somewhere found offensive, there wouldn't even be a Texas anymore.

Anyway, the Ruffles were on sale and had just as much white-trash credence as Lay's. Ever wondered what a tablespoon of powdered potato chips tastes like? So did we.



















But not anymore. It was like being punched in the uvula with a statuette of Screwtape made from the dregs of a Carl's Jr. deep fryer.

We modified the original manuscript somewhat to make the recipe gluten-free (gotta appease our girlfriend, Girlfriend). This should be flour, but is actually some unholy mixture of millet flour, rice flour, tapioca starch, and a sprinkle of dirt from an elephant burial ground. Also, this was mixed at midnight on Samhain. During a total eclipse. By trolls. Hairy ones.














In the spirit of authenticity, we elected for the trashiest imitation vanilla we could find. (Truthfully, we didn't want to waste any of the good Madagascar bourbon vanilla on these cookies.)

Potato Chip Cookies part 2: The Fatback Strikes Back

The batter looked... strange. We've never made those poser, thin-ass butter cookies, but believe these are pretty similar. Except these contain potato chips. We can't stress this enough: these "cookies" have powdered potato chips in them. This was, like, a week ago and we still haven't come to terms with it.

Anything looks good if you get close enough. Like figs. And long-term relationships.

Just to show that we're not kidding, here's testament to the depravity of Pumpkintown:
Bound in human flesh and inked in blood by the Duchess of Qwghlm herself, the recipe book also contains bizarre burial rituals and demon resurrection passages. It was never meant for the world of the living.

Potato Chip Cookies part 3: Return of the RedEye

The recipe called for 1/2 teaspoon globs. Our cookie scoops only go down to 1 tablespoon, so we winged it. It's not like it really matters, anyway. None of this matters. They're potato chip "cookies," man. It's the end of the world.


Elapsed time: not enough. Assuming cookie goodness is proportional to cooking time, these aren't likely to be good until, say, the heat-death of the universe.

On the upside, though, they are homemade. Homemade sin, but homemade nonetheless. It was better than this King Choc*Nut we found at Fubonn.

The "cookies" weren't that bad, really, kinda salty and really buttery with a strange, almost bitter, after-taste. The funny thing, though, was we found ourselves hating them more and more as time went by, even though we might not have been consuming the "cookies" during the intervening time. (e.g. we hated them, slept fifteen hours, then really hated them) So, we eventually threw them out. The next day, we threw out the batter. Day after that, we drank 'till we forgot the recipe. The day after that we cut the oven into 2" cubes with a thermic lance, dissolved all the bowls and cutlery in aqua regia, and nuked our house from orbit. It was the only way to be sure.