The Molasses Cookie Caper

Cooking in a tiny kitchen? Your grandson wants molasses cookies? Take it from me: hie yourself to the nearest bakery and buy a dozen. One night recently I offered Jacob gingerbread for dessert. He, who is not an adventuresome eater, declined, but then he waxed eloquent about the brown cookies I used to make where the tops cracked. Molasses cookies, nothing but gingerbread in cookie form. So of course, I immediately put the ingredients on my shopping list.

I decided today, Saturday, I would make the dough, and Jacob could help me roll the little balls to bake them tomorrow. The dough needs to sit in the fridge for a day. So being efficient, I got everything together and got out my super-duper new kitchen tool that does everything. Only problem is that I never know what attachment to use.

My first mistake: I sifted all the dry ingredients together and apparently had a brain lapse. Having baked thousands of cookies in my long life, I know better—but I put the sugar into the dry ingredients instead of beating it with the eggs. Okay, I figured I could overcome that.

I turned to beating the eggs, butter, and molasses. The super-duper tool did nothing. No juice. I discovered I had no power to my hot plate or toaster oven either. In such a situation, I have to call Jordan to please go behind the cottage and fix the circuit breaker—an area not accessible to me. Meanwhile I plugged the mixer in by the sink—close quarters. The first attachment I tried did a marvelous job of beating eggs and absolutely nothing with three sticks of soft butter. It just clogged up. So I got out the whisk.

Whoa, Nellie! It worked—and threw globs of egg and butter all over the kitchen. On the walls, the floor, my shirt, and the little bit of carpet by the bedroom door right next to the kitchen. Cleaning the floor is not easy from my Rollator walker but I did it.  The carpet stumped me, but I used my usual cleaning method—pointed out the globs to Sophie.

I made myself slow down, breathe deeply, and calmly do things in an orderly manner. Eventually I had cookie dough in the fridge and a clean kitchen. But I wasn’t through. I made an overnight salad—no, it’s not Jell-O; it’s romaine and avocado and olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, and Parmesan. Sounds improbable but it is superb. Hint: the recipe is in Gourmet on a Hot Plate.

Got that in the fridge and turned to boning the chicken breasts I poached earlier in the day. Got that done and ate my supper, relaxed and happy because tomorrow night’s family dinner is in the bag. I’m a plan-ahead person, and I love having dinner almost made the night before. Tomorrow, I’ll turn the diced chicken into a chicken/green chili casserole, sauté some asparagus and sugar snap peas, and unwrap that salad, give it a toss, and there’s dinner.

When I cook, I clean by stages, so the kitchen is clean tonight. And I’m tired. But it was a good day.

Last night, when I got in bed, Sophie jumped up on the bed and settled herself next to me as though that was the spot where she belongs. I loved on her, and we visited for a bit. She is a loving dog but not a cuddly one—she’ll sit for hours if you’ll pet her, rub her ears, stroke her face, but she rarely feels the need to have her whole body next to mine. So that was a treat. Maybe she’ll come back tonight.

Sweet dreams, y’all.