Oatmeal Raisin Cookies — This is why we lie

Deceiving Motorists Voluntarily

At a young age I, like everyone else, was taught lying is wrong. Yet, some years ago two visits to my local Driver’s License Office set me wondering…if the government can participate in willful deception, why can’t I? It’s a crazy thought, I know, so maybe an explanation is required.

On my first visit I was handed a slip with a number and an approximate wait time of 25 minutes. One hour later I left with a new temporary driver’s license. A more detailed look shows 58 minutes spent waiting and two minutes spent paying $10, getting my picture taken, signing my name and fingerprinting my thumbs.

The second visit put my approximate wait time at 32 minutes. I’d been there for 31 minutes when they were “now serving A159″—I was A168. I received my slip at A140. At 33 minutes still A159.

That’s when my realization struck: there weren’t a bunch of problem people, there was no chance of moving 28 people in 32 minutes. And they knew it. That’s it I’m breaking loose! No, I didn’t take the last cookie. I have no idea what bank robbery you’re talking about, officer. There is a Santa Claus and an Easter Bunny and Cupid and The Great Pumpkin and leprechauns.

Twenty-odd minutes more of waiting did bring some further thought. The DMV would be much nicer with plush chairs, magazines, TVs not showing soap operas, maybe DVDs? Oooh and puzzles—big 2000 piece puzzles at communal tables or karaoke. Also, this wait time lie might be akin to those little white lies I, like everyone else, were taught to tell. You know, like saying how much you love that Ant Farm present when really you have a paralyzing fear of ants. Perhaps amusement parks should adopt the same practice: instead of saying 30 minutes say 10 then claim someone held up the line. Though people are more willing to wait knowing the destination will result in a breath-taking, hair-raising, scream-inducing ride. Only a 16-year-old and accompanying parent get the same result at the DMV. Really, the DMV is trying to protect us by staving off feelings of annoyance. Or, from riots resulting from those distasteful emotions.

A few minutes more made me question the reason for a wait time. No one (I hope) goes to the DMV for the fun of it. They have to be there; they have to wait. Why tell them how long, even an approximation? Then I realized it’s for the same reason underground train cars have windows…no, not for movie special effects…for comfort. It’s a glimmer of light indicating an eventual end to the agony of waiting at the DMV.

And, as for lies go I’ve realized people would be more comfortable believing I was not a cookie hog. I would certainly be more comfortable out of jail and enjoying my riches. And, wouldn’t we all be happier believing fairy-tale creatures were bringing us presents, candy and love?

Oatmeal Raisin Cookies
(adapted from one found on vegweb — full credit is being given because I wouldn’t want to be accused of a Big White Lie — though I wonder how many things have to be changed before it turns into a Little White Lie? Or, the Truth?)

¾ cup brown sugar
¼ cup sugar
¾ cup milk
½ cup vegetable oil
½ heaping cup raisins
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 ½ cup flour (1 cup all-purpose + ½ cup wheat)
1 ½ cup oats
¾ teaspoon cinnamon
¾ teaspoon nutmeg
¾ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon vanilla

Bring sugars, milk, oil and raisins to a boil. Simmer for 5 minutes. Remove from heat and add in baking soda. Enjoy the fun explosion. Think about building a volcano. In a large bowl mix together remaining ingredients. Mix the sugars and the dry ingredients together. Put spoonfuls onto an ungreased baking sheet. Bake in a 350° oven, possibly about 10 minutes.

These cookies are worth stealing and lying about. I love Oatmeal Raisin Cookies, but the good…the great one is hard to find. True satisfaction has rarely been found. Then I made these…a few batches. The first batch went inside of me. I became more generous with the second and third.

One thought on “Oatmeal Raisin Cookies — This is why we lie

  1. Pingback: A day dream, sleep dream, sweet dream « by: The Common Cook

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