Monthly Archives: December 2024

Remembering rescues, planning for success.

This morning my daughters and I were chatting online about cookies, and sharing pictures or files of recipes, for the sake of one daughter who asked for one with simple ingredients, to fill out a cookie platter. It was a lot of fun to stir up memories together of Cookies We Have Loved, without having to mess up the kitchen.

I may yet make a mess with cookie dough in there. One key to getting cookies made is to put the sticks of butter out to soften overnight; then there’s a gentle pressure to use it as soon as possible the next day — or at least, to mix up the dough, which might be baked a different day. What I shouldn’t do is try to cook the whole day long, and be on my feet doing it.

Many of you know how I often try to rescue failed kitchen projects, sometimes making unique treats from cookie disasters. This story I wrote about that more than ten years ago is a funny example. But it’s also kind of sad, because of not being able to repeat the successful rescues. But with cookies, one has to enjoy memories in any case, because we can’t just go on eating a new one, can we??

From twelve years ago:

At the beginning of November I had a cookie craving, and it occurred to me that I might as well make one of our favorite kinds of Christmas cookies; I could eat a few and freeze most of them, and be ahead of the to-do list. Our family’s holiday traditions include platters piled with various kinds of cookies, most of which won’t be seen again until the next Christmas. For this first session of baking I chose the soft Ginger Spice Cookies that feature an intoxicating combination of spices and diced candied ginger as well.

 Something went wrong, or maybe a few things. I had made a note on the recipe card suggesting that I cut the sugar back another 1/4 cup from the previous alteration, because, “they are plenty sweet.” I am reminded of the story about the farmer who discovered he could add some sawdust to his horse’s feed and save money that way. He kept adding more and more sawdust and the horse seemed to do fine with it, until one day it died.

The recipe must have been just about perfect before I changed it just a little, and then the cookies came out terrible. Was it only the lack of sweetness that made them taste strongly of baking soda with pockets of overwhelming clove flavor? Or perhaps I hadn’t mixed the dough enough? I thought I would have to throw them out.

But wait – couldn’t they be used for something? If I dried them in the oven, and ground them finely in the food processor, I could use them as the basis for different cookies….so I tried just that. To the fine crumbs I added a cube of butter, an egg, and extra sugar and flour. A little more ground ginger and a tiny bit of cardamom. Then instead of dropping the dough by teaspoonfuls I chilled and rolled it, into trees. Now we have crisp gingerbread cookies that surprise the eater with an occasional tiny piece of candied ginger, and that warm your mouth with an even more complex and winning flavor. Alas, never to be duplicated.

This made me brave enough to tackle the other failed cookie product that had been sitting in the freezer for awhile, since the time I made some Russian Tea Cakes but only put in half as much flour as they needed. The buttery, pecan-studded cookie crumbs I had stuck in a jar in the freezer, being unwilling at the time to give up on them.

Now I dug them out and experimented in a similar way, adding an egg, sugar, flour, baking powder and lemon zest. I tried to roll this dough, too, but it would not hold together, so I shaped disks and stuck a pecan half on each one. Behold! Another new and non-repeatable Glad Christmas cookie, which the man of the house has tasted and approved. I do hope nonetheless that I can avoid making a yearly tradition of the Cookie Rescue.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Back to December of 2024… Here (pictured above) is a cookie from the New York Times cooks that I’d like to try making this year: Ginger Cheesecake Cookies

If this one were to flop somehow, I think I would save the pieces to use in a trifle — Haha! Don’t believe it. I have done that before, and have I ever made a trifle of those tidbits? No, I just snack on them until they are gone… So, let’s hope they work out as intact cookies. I promise not to cut back on the sugar very much.

I could have got halfway through a cookie recipe in the time I’ve spent thinking about cookies this afternoon. But no, my butter wasn’t soft. So I’ll take a couple of sticks out of the refrigerator right now, and who knows… maybe tonight….


Hoping your Christmas preparations are peaceful.
I love seeing everyone’s plans and decorations.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!

A mind like snow.

This lighthearted (or sardonic – see the comments below) poem by Philip Larkin reminds me of a short conversation I had with a Christian friend about the possibility of my developing dementia in my old age, to the point where I would forget God. She gently rebuked me for not remembering that it is in my spirit, my nous, that I know God most truly, and I would never forget him, no matter what happened to my fragile intellect.

One aspect of the mind that I notice in the poem is its coldness, as it’s likened to snow. By contrast, we might think of those whose hearts are warmed by the love of God. If you have people like that around, radiating into your life, it doesn’t really matter what facts they have forgotten.

THE WINTER PALACE

Most people know more as they get older:
I give all that the cold shoulder.

I spent my second quarter-century
Losing what I had learnt at university.

And refusing to take in what had happened since.
Now I know none of the names in the public prints,

And am starting to give offence by forgetting faces
And swearing I’ve never been in certain places.

It will be worth it, if in the end I manage
To blank out whatever it is that is doing the damage.

Then there will be nothing I know.
My mind will fold into itself, like fields, like snow.

-Philip Larkin

 

He was a divinely good person.

On the Feast of Saint Nicholas, I give you once more the words of Fr. Thomas Hopko from The Winter Pascha:

“The extraordinary thing about the image of St. Nicholas in the Church is that he is not known for anything extraordinary. He was not a theologian and never wrote a word, yet he is famous in the memory of believers as a zealot for orthodoxy, allegedly accosting the heretic Arius at the first ecumenical council in Nicaea for denying the divinity of God’s son. He was not an ascetic and did no outstanding feats of fasting and vigils, yet he is praised for his possession of the “fruit of the Holy Spirit…love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control” (Gal. 5:22-23). He was not a mystic in our present meaning of the term but he lived daily with the Lord and was godly in all his words and deeds. He was not a prophet in the technical sense, yet he proclaimed the Word of God, exposed the sins of the wicked, defended the rights of the oppressed and afflicted, and battled against every form of injustice with supernatural compassion and mercy. In a word, he was a good pastor, father, and bishop to his flock, known especially for his love and care for the poor. Most simply put, he was a divinely good person.”

Happy Saint Nicholas Day!

St. Nicholas Orthodox Church in San Anselmo, California

Reading a Wife

READING A WIFE

A wife is not composed of words, so
Unlike a novel that takes till dawn
To devour she cannot be read
through in a night

Repeating the uneasy lines of a poem
Over and over, rereading again and again
would be different, too (though it probably looks the same)

Yesterday, while driving the car
In a break in the din
I heard for a moment the beat of a bird’s wings
Ah, I thought

That ‘Ah’ was just for one moment, but
It would need an eternity to comprehend, never mind
My wife, who is before me sleeping or awake

Is it arrogant to even want to read a person?
Not her expressions or gestures
But to want to read that person, my wife
Unable to be satisfied with just living together?

My wife speaking to me from across the table
My wife wordlessly tossing and turning in bed
The one there that seems like
Loyal ladies-in-waiting serving a wife I can’t see

In the breath inscribed in each sentence
Punctuated by daily reality
Its draft turns the pages of my wife

I wish to grasp not the look but the way of the words
In a quiet place far from both my wife and myself
And like a twig that smells the approach of snow in the air
I want to read my wife

-Yotsumoto Yasuhiro

Bedouin Woman by César Gemayel