The Bounteous Ballad of the Baked Good

Me and some friends, too many to list,

Were one day drinking, getting pissed

When, in my drunken stupor, blissed,

I had a great idea.

“You see, I’ve read online,” I said

“ - wherever my last wiki rabbit hole led -

“Of a cookie that over a hundred feet spread

“From front unto its rear.”

And with that told, I did relate

My master plan: that we create

For those that we appreciate

A way to bring them cheer.

“Let’s bake a cookie, overgrown,

“That weighs well over three grand stone,

“And with that, claim a Guinness throne

“To share among those here.”

[And then Amelia comes in, bold.

Claims the B-scheme’s growing old.

So though I’ll admit, I’m not quite sold,

I’ll find another rhyme.]

I saw, real time, my words excite

My friends. I saw flames* ignite,

(*Of passion) for lofty goals of might:

Our target most sublime.

[They’re saying I exaggerate.

That the idea wasn’t ‘uniquely great’,

Nor ‘merely yours, inebriate’.

But embellishment’s not a crime.”]

And so we started to discuss

What skills to use? How much to fuss?

What tastes best showcase all of us?

Chocolate? Lemon? Thyme?

So there we were, our task begun -

Not one embarked upon for fun.

We knew at once what ought be done:

“A list we must compile.”

A list of what we had to buy,

From recipes we thought to try,

And then, those ingredients multiply

To suit our massive style.

That list, it wasn’t easy friend.

If you can, please comprehend

A google doc that doesn’t end.

Its making was a trial.

As for the maths, well, fine, we guessed

At sums and figures, not too stressed.

“Just buy the lot!” I once expressed.

“We’ll make it worth our while.”

We settled soon on chocolate chip.

We chose the people for the trip

Down yonder, to the shopping strip,

To buy the tools we need.

The soberest among our crew,

Armed to the teeth with derring-do,

Marched into stores, two by two

To uphold our new creed.

And those, less stable, stayed behind.

(Including me, so please be kind.)

We drafted, outlined, redesigned

Our monument to greed.

Then here, we hit a stumbling block

We searched the kitchen, ‘round the clock

And looked through every pot and crock

But none would suit our deed.

You see, my dearest, learned friend,

As fun as it would be, to pretend

Our plan was whole, without a bend

It would be but a lie.

You may have clocked, not long ago,

I mentioned that, from head to toe

That cookie was quite large, and so

Quite difficult to fry.

[I know, I know, that cookies bake

So don’t you dare try judge me, Jake.

It’s Artistic License, not a mistake.

For once, just let it die.]

The point is, whenever there’s cookies to make,

They’re shoved in an oven and left there to bake.

For something this large, it seemed we need take

Them and leave them under sky.

See, my kitchen is human sized.

A quality widely sought and prized.

But, for the cookie fantasised

It didn’t fit the bill.

A one hundred foot circle, for those unaware

Is more than seven hundred full meters square.

And ovens that size are exceedingly rare

No matter how great your will.

And our will was flagging, truth be told

The fires and fervour of passion gone cold.

The stakes had been raised and we had to fold.

We’d lost the spark, the thrill.

But then, as if summoned by despair,

The van returned, eager to share

The treasures found, the Tupperware.

The eggs, the sugar. Dill?

They filled us all with joy anew,

And fresh and new ideas too.

For after all, what would we do

With such a giant treat?

The plan had been to bake it, proud.

To draw attention clear and loud.

“We’ll win some accolades,” we vowed

“Once that former record’s beat!”

But when the record’s good and won,

The cookie baked beneath the sun.

Why then, what’s left to be done?

It is, of course, to eat.

So we’d invite our friends, and foes

(It’s hard to exclude them, I suppose)

To marvel at, in Hunger’s throes

Our huge, delicious feat.

But be they big or be they small,

Cookie eating’s fun for all.

We may not live within fame’s hall,

But fame is overrated.

I once more stood, to give a speech.

To everyone, I did beseech

That “Though our goal is out of reach,

“Let not those fires be sated.”

My plan, which then I did recite

Was borne of both my brain’s own might

And of those containers airtight

That have previously been stated.

“It's simple then. I say to thee:

“We will commence our baking spree,

“And it shall live in infamy,

“Both feared and celebrated.”

[They’re claiming I’m a glory hog,

That they’re the ones who had to slog

Whilst I just sat and drank eggnog.

But that’s just jealousy.]

[I say that, Claire, because it's true.

I’m sure, if we had looked to you

They’d all be drinking, dozing too.

The ideas came from me.]

Sugar, butter, eggs and milk.

All that other baking ilk.

“Make a batter smooth as silk.”

So reads the recipe.

The plan is thus, we will create

Countless cookie batches, straight -

Too many to enumerate.

Then give them out for free.

And thus, our noble aims shall yet

With pride and honour and more, be met.

We’ll bake them, then pack them, and then we’re set

To deliver throughout the town.

[Thanks for the praise, I do feel proud.

Of course I have to say this aloud.

Why are you looking at me all furrow-browed?

I gave you no reason to frown.]

The first batch is cooled and packed with care.

The smell of baking fills the air.

And cookies start to fill Tupperware,

Baked and golden brown.

[What do you mean, “If I’m done with my song

I should get off the ground and help move things along.”?

Well, this is a poem, so you’re already wrong,

But fine, I’ll come on down.]