rum balls

I was not having a good day.

Sunday, (that is, yesterday), I woke up late. Normally, this would not be a big deal, all things considered. Though I'm notorious for cramming my schedule to the brim with various obligations, I consider my Lazy Sundays to be sacred, serious business.

Except for this Sunday, which was, non-coincidentally, the day before the first day of winter quarter. This is also normally not a big deal. One of the many perks of being an art student is, well...work is play. There are no tests, no menial assignments, no group activities that inevitably require spending far too much time in the vicinity of the Axe-wearing population. Wait, did I say 'wearing'? I actually meant, 'drenched'. In fact, just working on my thesis work these past couple of quarters has, in effect, totally divorced me from the academic life cycle of the typical college student. Until I decided to start and finish a minor in two quarters.

On this Sunday, I not only needed to order textbooks (because, oops, forgot that Real college classes require those), and try to remember what it's like to be an actual college student - I also had signed up to make dinner for friends. Eight friends. It wasn't until after the invitations had been haphazardly issued that I realized: my apartment doesn't even have eight chairs. However, what it lacked in furniture, it compensated for in filthiness (a combined effort from: my propensity for cooking complicated meals, evenings that often result an impressive volume of recyclables, and a cooperative laziness in that whole "taking-out-the-trash" activity that I hear that mature, grown-up people do sometimes).

Needless to say, there were about five or six full trips worth of trash and recyclables to take out. In my slightly deranged haste, I forgot my keys on the kitchen table when I took out the first load.

Of course, the "oh shit" moment of realization dawned on me right when the deadbolt was clicking into place. I panicked. Not only was my roommate at work, I also didn't have my wallet. Or a coat. So I did the only thing that I could have done, given the circumstances. I took out the damn trash.

On my way back in, I frantically flagged down my sassy neighbor to see whether she had my building manager's phone number. I was positive that she would, given that she's the type to hang out on her balcony to put the drivers of illegal parked cars in their place. So I fully expected that she would be able to help me out. What I was not expecting was for her to point towards the floor above us (we have an open courtyard layout), and say, "Oh. Joe? He's right there."

I wish I was joking when I confess that Handel's Messiah actually starts playing in my head when this happens. Looking up, I behold the first glorious sight of my grizzled, bandanna-wearing landlord waving with his epic ring of keys - one of which could let me back inside my warm (slightly less smelly) apartment!

I was so giddy with relief (and harried, as I still had a mess of an apartment to contend with, and a meal to make), and so preoccupied with entertaining thoughts of what I would have done had Joe not been conveniently to the rescue that - I did it again.

Now, this was not my proudest moment. But, I figured, I had just seen Joe. It would be embarrassing to come crawling back to his apartment, but it wouldn't be beneath me. So, I ashamedly went up and timidly knocked on his door. Then waited awhile. Then, thinking that perhaps I had knocked too softly, knocked again. Then waited some more.

When it became clear that he wasn't home, I contemplated my options. And by options, I mean "trying to finagle the screen out of the only outfacing window to our apartment". Only thing was, in my hurry, I miscounted the windows. A pertinent point that becomes clear minutes later, as my neighbor judo-death-chops his hand through the venetian blinds to give me the stank-eye. Just as I am getting the screen off his window. To his apartment. Once we both get over nearly pooping ourselves in surprise, he turned out to be a pretty nice guy. A pretty nice guy who also happened to have Joe's phone number on his fridge.

So, a quick call and an hour and a half later, I was back. In my warm, even less smelly apartment. And I really could have used a drink. But, as I had been up for less than two hours (1.5 of those which were spent waiting to be let back in), I decided that making these would probably be better form. And hot diggity, what a great decision that was.

Rum Balls
[only slightly tweaked from Everyone Likes Sandwiches]

INGREDIENTS

• 3 cups pecans
• 2 1/2 cups vanilla cookies
• 1 cup powdered sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 4 tablespoons dark cocoa powder
• 4 tablespoons molasses
• 1/2 cup amber rum

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Toss pecans on a baking sheet, for about 10 minutes, or until you can smell them. Cool, and chop coarsely.

While pecans are toasting, crush the cookies into mostly powder.

In a large bowl, combine chopped pecans, cookies, powdered sugar, cinnamon, and cocoa.

Add the molasses and rum, and mix well.

Try not to nip from the bottle.

Chill for at least 1 hour.

Try not to eat the dough.

Roll mixture into bite-size balls and roll in powdered sugar.

They were perfect. Smashing helpless cookies to smithereens with a blunt object? Great outlet for pent-up frustration. No baking required, which was particularly helpful in my current state of mind. Bite-sized, and an easy candy alternative. Oh, and did I mention that they pack a bit of a punch?


Good thing I made a double batch. More than enough for me, and apology gifts for my next door neighbor and building manager. Everyone wins!