Calculus Projects and High Fives
Have you ever worked on a project for calculus class? Actually, nevermind because it doesn't really matter for this story. What does matter is whether or not I have ever worked on a calculus project. Maybe, then, I should have asked, "Have I ever worked on a project for calculus class?" Then I could answer, "Yes, quite recently, in fact," which would lead into the story I am about to tell.
Recently, while working on a calculus project, I needed to make a model of a cup to cut into pieces as a demonstration in finding the volume of the cup (without actually measuring the volume, of course). "Whatever could I make a model from?" I asked to no one in particular (unless my friend standing nearby happened to be someone in particular).
We (Rob and I) discussed several substances which we could fill the cup with--everything from the edible, Jell-O and pudding, to the obvious, modeling clay, to the cheap, PlayDough, to the very cheap, homemade PlayDough substitute made from flour, salt, and water. Partly because I didn't feel like shelling out two dollars, but mostly because we were already in the kitchen and any other option would require us to go somewhere, we opted for the flour concoction.
So we made this stuff, tasted a bit, and filled the cup with some, but there was still a sizeable portion left over. Rob said something about how he had suggested that I cut the recipe we found in half, but I don't remember anything of the sort. Who would've guessed that 3 cups of flour, 1/4 cup of salt, and about 2 cups of water would be more than the amount needed to fill a 4 ounce cup? Well, that's not important, now, but what do we do with all the extra dough? I had a solution, one that would work and would benefit all of mankind (if you consider all of mankind to be Rob and me).
So, following my detailed plan meticulously, I retrieved the crushed garlic, garlic oil, and cayenne pepper from a cupboard and mixed the ingredients into the dough, which was separated into thirds. One ball of dough got both garlic flavorings, one received the pepper, and the last was preserved in its original, super-salty form. Each of the flavors was rolled in turn and cut into round cookies, which were then placed on a greased cookie sheet to be baked for 8-10 minutes or until golden-brown. Oh, I baked the cup-shaped piece, too, because I needed it to harden for... uh, something. I think... What was I supposed to be doing? Whatever, Rob and I talked and laughed and talked some more with some added laughing (the hysterical type) about the following day (which is now yesterday) when I would distribute the "cookies" to my coworkers. We both agreed, through sobs of laughter, that I would need to keep a straight face when handing out the treats, so we laughed some more and talked some more. This went on for 20 or 30 minutes, during which time we had taken the sweets (er, salts?) out of the oven.
We had been talking in the living room and our hands were coated in garlic oil, so we hadn't noticed the atrocious smell emanating from the kitchen until the timer beeped. Uh oh, I hoped my roommate wouldn't be home for a bit. We turned off the stove, opened the front and back doors, and turned on the kitchen's ceiling fan (it's white, and there was a black bottle cap on top of it). Then, of course, we had to sample our creations. Our actual responses were too graphic to even describe here--the cookies were perfect.
The next day, I offered a cookie as soon as I could corner one person because I wanted to test my reaction to the offended party's reaction--that is, I needed to know whether I was capable of constraining my devilish grin, which would warn the target and compromise the mission. He picked one of the garlic-laden varieties from the Tupperware, and my face was stone. With the first bite he cleaved the circle in two, leaving only a crescent. His jaw moved up, down, up, and as it came down again, he spewed the vile thing out, exclaiming, "That's not a cookie! What the hell is that?" It was here that my stern demeanor dissolved as the weakening levy was overwhelmed by the flood of my laughter and accompanying tears.
Several other people fell victim to the "trick cookies" as they came to be called, and several more refused after witnessing the effects. One of the latter asked why I had made the cookies, so I told him about the calculus project... WHAT!? Calculus project!? Um, I'll be right back. I've got something to take care of...
OK, now that that's out of the way, when I told him about the homemade PlayDough and my refusal to waste the leftovers, he responded, "Dude, you got everyone to eat your PlayDough? You rock!" Then, he gave me a high five.