So when it comes to doing homework, I always get it done... it just usually takes me longer to get around to it than it does to actually DO it. And today I've been especially bad. I have a project due Thursday I don't even want to think about and all the other typical reading assignments and quizzes to look forward to for tomorrow. So... what do I do? Of course! I decide to bake cookies. And not just the break-apart-stick-in-oven kind! (That's my usual) No sir-- this time, I decide to take the long route. I found a recipe on google somewhere and then went at it. Flour, sugar, vanilla, eggs, butter, baking powder, salt! Mix mix mix. Chill at least an hour (I went for an hour and a half). Then- I rolled and floured until flat and used a plastic cup in place of a cookie cutter because I don't have any! Then about 5 batches later (about 8 minutes each in the 400 degree oven)-- voila! I have cookies. The sprinkle ones are easy, of course, but the frosting ones... of course those take more time. Cooling... mixing color into the frosting... decorating... humming as I go. Finally! A masterpiece.
Except one thing-- I wanted soft cookies and these are the pretty hard kinds that are quite flour-based. Well I guess that's what I get for having no idea how to make REAL cookies!
Darn it. Maybe my next recipe will be for a completely different genre of sugar cookie-- soft and sugary! :)
But I AM pretty proud of my ziploc bag squeeze drawings! I feel like I'm 7 years old again!
Okay... now to the homework... four hours later! :)
Jeffery Lenard collapsed. Tears came to his eyes. He could hear the roar. He knew what he had done. He laughed quietly to himself. He had done what no one thought was possible. He struggled to get up as a smirk creeped across his lips. He threw his arms in the air triumphantly, a victorious grin across his face. The crowd in the Olympic stadium in London roared again upon seeing his recovery. He had done it. He had run a 9.26 in the 100m, beating the previous world record by over a quarter of a second. He basked in the glory of the moment, after running what would later be regarded as Lenard’s Miracle. Around the world, people were staring at their television sets in shock as Jeffery Lenard, a no-name from a small town in upstate New York, ran the victory lap with the Stars and Bars draped across his shoulders.
Oliver Quinn stood stunned in the crowd, still in disbelief of what he had just witnessed. This man, this Jeffery Lenard, had just beaten his record. In 2011, at the Boston Indoor Games, Oliver had run an impressive 9.62, setting a new world record and gaining the respect and adoration of the country by bringing the record back to the United States. But now, after only one short year, he was disgraced. He was supposed to have run in the Olympics as well but, due to an ankle injury only weeks before, he couldn’t. He crumpled his program in disgust and began wading his way through the overjoyed crowd. He saw people taking pictures. He saw people waving American flags. Flags they waved for him not so long ago. He saw a man with his young son on his shoulders. As he passed, he heard the man exclaim, “You see that, Jeremy? You see that man? That’s Jeffery Lenard, the fastest man in the world!” The child’s eyes were wide with reverent awe. Oliver sneered in angst and pushed his way through the crowd.
“This cannot be” he said under his breath, “I am the fastest man in the world. ME.”
Jeffery Lenard was overwhelmed as his lawyer told him the money he would be making in sponsorships. “You’re going to be rolling in it, Jeff. I’m telling you man, they love this stuff!” His lawyer said “The Olympics are money. You don’t even need that medal, you practically are gold!” Jeffery held the medal like a mother holding her newborn. The beauty of it was something he never could have imagined. Growing up, he had always wanted to run. Watching Maurice Greene as a child, he always knew he would have the world record. It was his dream. Now his dream had come true, and he couldn’t have been happier. He shut his eyes and took in the moment. Nothing could top this.
Oliver’s eyes opened once more. The drone of the TV was keeping him awake; although he had turned it on to aid him in his attempt to go to sleep. It was nearly two in the morning, a month after he had left London and the Olympics. He rolled over and tried once more to find a comfortable spot on his aged mattress. Again, he was met without success. Exasperated, he arose and went to the kitchen of his modest apartment. Upon revision of the contents of his fridge, he sat in his easy chair with a glass of milk. His mother used to give him milk before bed when he was a child. My mother, he thought, she’s got nothing to be proud of anymore. No one cares to be the parent of the second fastest man alive. He sighed and took a swig of the milk. Somehow, it helped relax his nerves and put him somewhat at ease. He leaned back in the chair drowsily, thinking of some way he could make his mother proud again. She had always said he was the runt of the family, what with his sister going to Harvard and his brother becoming a successful Wall Street businessman. He had never been good enough. But then he broke the record. She was so proud when he broke the record. When he was the best. When he wasn’t the runt. When he was the world’s fastest man. He slowly drifted to sleep.
He was in a crowd. People were taking pictures and waving flags. He saw a man with a child on his shoulders.
The father exclaimed, “You see that, Jeremy? You see that man? That’s Jeffery Lenard, the fastest man in the world!”
The child pointed to Oliver and said, “Daddy! Who is that man?”
The father scoffed, saying “Him? He’s nothing, he’s just a runt”
Oliver protested in defensive anger, “No I’m not! I was the fastest man alive! Don’t you remember?!”
The father turned the child away from Oliver, “Don’t pay any attention to him Jer, he’s just a runt. A good-for-nothing runt.”
“No! I’m not! I’m not a runt! I’m not!” Oliver screamed, on the verge of tears, “I’ll show you! I’m not!”
Oliver snapped awake in a cold sweat, knocking the glass of milk to the floor. “I-I-I’m not a runt” He stammered nervously as he picked up the remote and turned off the television his hand trembling from the apparent reality of the dream. “I’ll show them. Y-y-yeah. I’ll show them.” He glanced at the clock. It was seven AM. Then suddenly, he knew what he would do. He would make his mother proud again. He went to his room and got dressed and left the house, leaving the milk to settle into the carpet.
Jeffery Lenard woke peacefully. He sat up and stretched his arms as far as they could reach, yawning as he did. He smiled as his eyes adjusted to the light and his gold medal came in to view, hanging in a case he had bought for it. He got out of bed and went into the bathroom to shower. A few minutes later, he emerged from the steam, refreshed and energized. Wrapped in his towel, he went to the kitchen of his lavish condo and decided it was a bacon and eggs kind of morning. He threw some meat on the skillet and retrieved the egg tray from the fridge. As the bacon cooked, he went back to his room and put on some clothes to lounge around in. As he fumbled around to find his watch, he heard the phone ring. Slightly startled, he laughed at himself for being so jumpy. He walked over to the telephone and picked up.
“Hello, is this, Jeffery Lenard?” Jeffery walked over to the kitchen table and sat down, looking at yesterday’s paper. “Yep, you got him.”
“Wow, it’s really you!?”
Jeffery smiled. Fans were always calling. Every now and then, somehow, his number would get leaked to the public and he’d get a call like this. “It’s really me.”
“You’re the fastest man alive, right?”
Jeffery froze. “Excuse…”
There was a resonating bang as Jeffery’s head snapped backwards, and his body fell over, along with the chair from the force of the bullet that had torn trough the newspaper, just between the forecast for St. Paul and Green Bay. The front door to the extravagant condo opened and a man walked in and stood above the lifeless body of Jeffery Lenard. Oliver Quinn glanced at the hole his weapon had left in the window and then down at the man who had stripped him of his pride. He sneered.
“Not even the fastest man in the world can outrun a bullet.”
He left the house, removing his gloves as he did. An acrid smell filled the air as, on the stove, the bacon began to burn.