The sweet cookie monster and a sour thought

The cookie monster has hit our house—not so much the one that devours cookies, but the one that bakes them. For three weeks now, I have been consumed each weekend with making cookies, primarily for Jacob’s benefit. He gets them in his school lunch every day, but I also admit that I have them after my lunch and dinner. I remind myself of my late mother-in-law, who used to say, “Judy, dear, just a little sweet with my coffee.” I don’t have the coffee, but I sure like topping  meal off with something sweet. I’ve noticed that I almost never hit my chocolate stash if I have cookies on hand.

I started, of course, with chocolate chip cookies—to me, that’s the quintessential cookie. But when those disappeared, I made oatmeal raisin, because Jacob admitted to a real liking of them. Those are almost gone now, so today I made the dough for molasses cookies. That led to an interesting exchange. Me: “Do you like molasses cookies?” Jacob: “What’s in them?” Me: “Molasses.” Jacob: “What’s molasses?” How do you explain molasses to a thirteen-year-old? I’m sure if I let him sniff it, he’d say, “No, thanks. I’m not eating that.” But the cookie batter smells and tastes so good. Yes, I confess I licked the beaters and the spatula.

So now I have to bake them, which is tricky in a toaster oven. It heats too hot and fast, and I have to adjust. Made stuffed eggplant this weekend, and the top got all crusty and dry—too hot too fast.

While it’s fun to bake cookies for a teen, I think often these days that raising a teenager—or loving grandchildren—is fraught with perils that I never thought of when my kids were teens. I know I’m inclined to be a worrier, but danger seems to lurk everywhere. It’s not unheard of for Jacob’s school to be on lockdown, and while I’m glad authorities are so cautious, I can’t help but be alarmed each time. Surely a shooting won’t happen here—but that’s what the people of Santa Clarita thought.

On Facebook I see too many notices pleading for help finding missing teens. I know a lot are runaways, and I ache for the unhappiness that must cause them to make such a dangerous decision. But we also hear too much these days about sex trafficking, and I wonder how many of those kids have been outright kidnapped and sold. A horrifying thought. If Jacob is a bit late or plays basketball on the schoolyard at dusk, I can conjure up horrible thoughts. My other grandchildren are in a way fortunate that I don’t live close enough to worry about their every move.

But as I admitted, I am a worrier. I worry a lot about my dog Sophie and almost never let her out in the yard unless I’m at my desk where I can watch her. My fear? That dogfight people will come snatch her. When I see notices on the Neighborhood News or some such of dogs needing a new home, I almost always write and recommend that people register the dog with a recognized rescue service which vets prospective owners carefully. I’ve heard that dogfight guys will send their cute girlfriend to ooh and aah over what a good pet a dog will make, only to flip it as a bait dog. (As I write this, Sophie is sitting on the deck, across the yard, watching me.)

Probably I am a person with exaggerated fears. Sometimes I blame it on my childhood on the South Side of Chicago, where I was raised to be cautious—well, yes, scared. Other times I attribute my fears to the over-active imagination of a writer. Now if I could only translate those fears into best-selling mysteries!

On the other hand, there’s that old bromide: better safe than sorry. Be cautious folks—there’s a world of meanness out there. Having said that, I have to admit I cling to my belief that there is so much more good in the world than evil, and in people. It’s just those aberrations we have to watch out for.

First harvest and a cookie cooperative

I harvested my first crop from my Christmas herb garden today—romaine that had grown long and lanky and kept folding over on itself. So I had a big salad for lunch—mixed a little leftover iceberg in with it, but the dark green leaves in the picture are my home-grown romaine. Added blue cheese, croutons, and my favorite Paul Newman’s vinaigrette dressing. A salad fit for a queen. In place of the romaine in the garden trough, I put a seedling of garden cress. We’ll see. I was tempted to use the mustard in my salad today, but I think it needs a bit more growth—it isn’t what I’d call plentiful yet. If you’ve never used raw mustard greens in a salad, I urge you to try them—peppery and spicy, a wonderful perk in a green salad.

Another cooking day. I seem to have a lot of them lately, not that I’m complaining. Yesterday I made the overnight salad and stashed it in the fridge. Tonight, I made a chicken/green chili casserole, but I fudged with the recipe a bit. Jordan found a recipe she really liked, but it gave no quantities. If you wanted to download the actual recipe you had to allow some program to put something on your computer—not going there. I found an approximate recipe and decided to make it, but the more I studied on it, the more skeptical I got.

The recipe said you could pour the sauce over raw boneless chicken breasts, but I elected to use diced chicken that I had poached yesterday. The sauce called for cream cheese, green chilies, spices, and grated Monterey Jack. I couldn’t see anything that would make it fluid enough to be a sauce. Cream cheese, evens often, is pretty solid. I added sour cream. Then I thought the recipe needed “finishing”—so I put a Ritz-cracker-crumb-and-butter topping on it. Pretty good if I do say so.

I sautéed the rest of the sugar snap peas and asparagus in the refrigerator. At Christian’s request, I splashed soy on them, though I questioned adding soy to a chili-based dish. Oriental and Mexican? My palate was not sure about that, but I went light on the soy, and it was all good.

For dessert, we had molasses cookies. Jacob and I baked them this afternoon. Well, sort of. He was a willing helper when I mentioned it this morning, but his enthusiasm waned when confronted with the task—assembling cookie sheets, greasing them, getting a small dish of sugar for rolling the cookies, etc. We had to do this in the house—I have a miniature jelly roll pan that fits my toaster oven, but I can only do five cookies or five biscuits at a time. We’d have been at it all week. So we went inside, but most of my cookie sheets, like lots of my kitchen stuff, have disappeared.

Like the cookie sheets, Jacob kept disappearing. His phone rang. He’d pet a dog or put on socks, and I’d send him to wash his hands again—he must have washed them five times. Once we got started and he saw what was involved, he decided I should roll the dough into little balls and he’d roll them in sugar. One pan, and he said, “We’re done, aren’t we?” Nope. It’s one of those recipes that makes five dozen. With Jordan’s help, we finally got it done. And I have to say, those are some darn fine cookies. But I’ll think twice before I commit to cookies again. Still….some chocolate chips, made the true old-fashioned way—oh, my so good!

 

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.