Call me Martha Stewart. 

It was a Wednesday afternoon. My roommate and I were laying on our beds, procrastinating and rotting. We had just gotten back from a little shopping trip, where we purchased Elif Batuman’s The Idiot, some postcards, charcoal pencils, an Italian-English dictionary, and plexiglass. Upon my bed, I planned out the rest of my afternoon—I would retrieve my laundry from the dryer and finish a reading. But my carnal spirit had other plans. My soul was on the loose. Words escaped my mouth, exclaiming, “You know what would save me? Warm brownie batter.” 

“Do you want to make some?” my roommate asked. 

“No,” I replied. “I don’t want to walk 10 blocks to go buy gluten-free brownie mix.” 

“Do you want to make some?” my roommate repeated. 

I lit up. “Do we have cocoa powder?” I exclaimed. Apparently, we did. “Do we have sugar?” My roommate paused, looked at me, and undressed the brownies with her eyes. 

“Fuck you! Let’s do this!” I screamed, running out into our kitchen with my computer in tow. I immediately pulled up the first homemade brownie recipe I saw, while my roommate rummaged through the cabinets for ingredients. We were really doing it. 

We decided that we didn’t give a shit about truly following a recipe. We didn’t need perfect brownies—all we needed was something that would satisfy that craving for warm, uncooked gooey chocolate cake. I opened up the recipe and decreased the serving amount using the interactive arrows, turning the proportions into a complex list of overly-precise numbers. 

Our alterations: 

Ingredients

• A little bit less than ½ a cup of white cane sugar 
• ⅓ a cup of gluten-free flour
• A little bit less than ⅓ a cup of cocoa powder 
• Around ¼ a cup of brown sugar (the disgusting Trader Joe’s brand)
• A pinch of salt from the Hewitt salt shaker (which our ex-RA stole for us)
• One egg 
• A little bit less than ⅓ a cup of canola oil 
• A little bit less than one tablespoon of milk. Then a bunch more. 
• Whatever was left of the vanilla. We just finished it off. 

The Process

• Mix everything together. Add more milk. 
• Split evenly into two bowls. Put them in the microwave for 40 seconds. 
• Serve with more milk. Can you tell I love milk?
• Enjoy!

We had a few mishaps along the way, yes. But what is baking but not a competition against yourself? A rat race between you and the mistakes you make, the human error that arises out of pure culinary desire? The brown sugar, specifically, was off. It was too organic, I judged, but we made do. As we poured the brown sugar into the bowl, it came out in clumps, which my roommate resolved by crushing between her fingers. 

As we mixed together each ingredient, our batter began to take shape. Mushy brown goodness swirled around the bowl, beckoning us to take a bite. Finally, it was done—it was time to make it warm. I placed the bowl in the microwave, closed the door, and watched it spin. Upon taking it out, we split up the portions and dug in. 

It was heaven. What can I say, how can I describe it, it’s literally just warm brownie batter. But it made my day, satisfied my hunger, cured all my mental illnesses. 

We cleaned up and returned to our room, stretching out upon our beds in pure brownie bliss. Then, a slight groan escaped from my roommate’s side. “Soldier down,” she said. “I’m so kitty.” Oh fuck, her stomach had started hurting! But fear not, readers—I was fine. 

Later that afternoon, my roommate and I reflected on our glorious afternoon. “Belly hurts,” she told me. Nonetheless, she continued, “It was a really enlightening moment. I felt like there was love in that dining room table. And also salmonella.” And, readers, I concur. 

All brownie images via Bwog Staff