Step 1: Remind yourself that it isn’t really running away from home, because you’re an adult, dammit. It’s liberating your personal effects from your parents’ house. At age 23. In the middle of the night. After a huge screaming fight with your mom that sounded a lot like the pilot episode of GIRLS.
Step 2: Call up the coolest guy you know in Los Angeles. Invite him to the New Years’ Eve party at Kneady Bakery, provided that he gives you a ride in his car to help you nab your stuff. No dude can turn down a heist AND a bundt cake.
Step 3: Wear the same clothes you’ve been wearing for three days, because your mom changed the lock on your front door while you were out getting baking supplies. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Step 4: Sit in the front seat with a bag of Oreos, a block of cream cheese, and two different kinds of melting chocolate on your lap. Your getaway driver will kiss you on the cheek and tell you that your hair doesn’t look that greasy. Remind yourself to check the Internet to see if Clyde ever said anything that romantic to Bonnie.
Step 5: Separate the Oreo halves like you and your brother used to do when you were kids. Scrape out the frosting with a butter knife. Have a moment of silence for the giant lump of goo that will not be included at all in the mix. Sneak a little scoop into your mouth before dumping the cream into the trashcan.
Step 6: Move all the cookie-halves into a plastic bag. At this point, your New Years date will wander into the kitchen, offering to help.
“I always listen to the Stones when I bake,” you’ll say, and he’ll smile, turn on Beast of Burden as loud as it will go.
Step 7: He’ll pull out an empty whiskey bottle, and help you smash the Oreo bits in the sealed ziplock bag. When Mick Jagger howls, “Ain’t I rough enough? Ooh! Ain’t I tough enough? Ain’t I rich enough, in love enough?” he’ll press you into the kitchen counter, wrap his arms around you from behind, cover your jeans in cookie dust. You won’t mind.
Step 8: Pour the ground bits of Oreo over the cream cheese. Wash your hands. Knead the grainy cookie smush into the entire block. You’ll think that you have way too much Oreo in there, but trust me, you don’t. Squish it like Playdough between your fingers until entirely combined. The cream cheese should be completely covered. Close your eyes and pray that the bodega below your apartment in NYC starts spreading schmear exactly like this on all of your bagels from now on.
Step 9: Roll the mixture into balls, approximately 2 inches in circumference. High five yourself mentally for using a math term correctly.
Step 10: Microwave the dark or milk melting chocolate per the instructions on the package, careful not to burn it. Use a fork to gently lower a cookie-ball into the chocolate, covering it completely. Shake off any excess chocolate before transferring to a cookie sheet.
Place them in the fridge for a few moments to harden. In the meantime, microwave the white chocolate and give your date a kiss. What! He’s cute!
Step 11: Decorate the top of each Oreo truffle by drizzling the white melting chocolate on top. Check the time. Realize that you are late, as usual, for the party, and hastily text Kati to let her know you’re leaving right now. Right now being 10 minutes from when that text is sent. Obviously.
Step 12: When you arrive at Kneady Bakery, set down the goodies, settle onto the couch, and be super thankful. You might not have pretty hair or clean clothes, but you do have good friends. Friends that are willing to hang out with you even when you haven’t been home in half a week, friends that will show you Scream for the first time and chime in when Stu shouts, “YOU HIT ME WITH THE PHONE, DICK!” Friends that will eat your Oreo truffles and tell you that they’re kind of good.
Friends that love you and support you and bake you yummy things.
To read more from the brilliant New York blogger of Kneady's heart, please direct your attention to her contributions to Thought Catalog HERE !