Monday, October 29, 2007
Tummy Cake
Excerpted from a New Yorker piece, "The Ambien Cookbook."
Tummy Cake
Ingredients:
5 eggs
2 cups flour
1 cup Crisco
1/2 cup milk
5 mg. Ambien
Take Ambien, fall asleep.
Wake up in kitchen, mixing eggs, flour, Crisco, and milk in—for some reason—a mop bucket.
Let batter settle.
Go to living room, turn on TV, search channels for a show that explains the second part of how to make a cake.
Curse the designer of your TV remote for making a device that has the buttons on the wrong side—all facing the floor, where you can’t see them.
Remember batter.
Retrieve bucket from kitchen, drink entire contents in 3-5 gulps.
Remember that the batter was supposed to be cooked.
Draw hot bath, immerse yourself in it, knead bloated stomach in effort to facilitate cooking process.
When mouth fills with now cooled bathwater, wake up and return to bed.
Lie back on pillow, watch cartoon bluebirds orbiting your head.
Grab one cartoon bluebird in midair and devour it raw, feathers and all.
Wake up at 7 A.M., with wife or girlfriend demanding to know what the F happened in the kitchen last night.
While trying to answer, burp up a single cartoon-bluebird feather. Cover mouth guiltily, even though she seems not to have noticed the feather.
When she slams the bedroom door and goes to work, pick cartoon-bluebird feather out of the air and swallow it.
Fall asleep for 36 more hours, interrupted only by periodic—and somehow epic-seeming—trips to the bathroom.
http://penfield.psych.uiuc.edu/omnibrain/2006/10/sleep-eating.html
Tummy Cake
Ingredients:
5 eggs
2 cups flour
1 cup Crisco
1/2 cup milk
5 mg. Ambien
Take Ambien, fall asleep.
Wake up in kitchen, mixing eggs, flour, Crisco, and milk in—for some reason—a mop bucket.
Let batter settle.
Go to living room, turn on TV, search channels for a show that explains the second part of how to make a cake.
Curse the designer of your TV remote for making a device that has the buttons on the wrong side—all facing the floor, where you can’t see them.
Remember batter.
Retrieve bucket from kitchen, drink entire contents in 3-5 gulps.
Remember that the batter was supposed to be cooked.
Draw hot bath, immerse yourself in it, knead bloated stomach in effort to facilitate cooking process.
When mouth fills with now cooled bathwater, wake up and return to bed.
Lie back on pillow, watch cartoon bluebirds orbiting your head.
Grab one cartoon bluebird in midair and devour it raw, feathers and all.
Wake up at 7 A.M., with wife or girlfriend demanding to know what the F happened in the kitchen last night.
While trying to answer, burp up a single cartoon-bluebird feather. Cover mouth guiltily, even though she seems not to have noticed the feather.
When she slams the bedroom door and goes to work, pick cartoon-bluebird feather out of the air and swallow it.
Fall asleep for 36 more hours, interrupted only by periodic—and somehow epic-seeming—trips to the bathroom.
http://penfield.psych.uiuc.edu/omnibrain/2006/10/sleep-eating.html
