Chocolate Chip Cookies

Kindgergarten, 1978

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I'm pretty sure mom took the photos that day.

Pigtails. Bell bottoms. Chocolate milk.

And since it was around Christmas, chocolate chip cookies. Tollhouse, usually. Made with sticks of salted butter.

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Back to Basics

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I picked up a bag of Ghirardelli semi-sweet. The recipe posted on the bag would be my guide, just like Tollhouse.

We didn't need chocolate chip cookies, though. We were still hammering away at a batch of coconut oatmeal. But when the kitchen is quiet, it's difficult to remain idle. So, I set the butter out to soften.

I thought about mom. How we'd make a batch of chocolate chip cookies around Christmas every year. Half with chocolate chips. Half, walnut only, for grandmom and pop pop Bill.

Lining tins with paper towels and stacking the cookies carefully for family and friends.

I'll do the same this year. I want to keep things simple and nostalgic, because it feels good to keep things simple and nostalgic.

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Weight and Chill

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Once the dough was just mixed I scraped down the edges with a rubber spatula and pulled out a soup spoon.

I placed a scoop on the scale. 1 1/2 oz.

I quickly rolled the dough and placed it on a plate.

Repeat.

When the last ball had been rolled I stuck the plate of chocolate chip cookie dough balls into the fridge to chill while the oven came up to temperature.

They would bake for 7 minutes. I would open the oven door and rotate the tray. The cookies would bake for 7 minutes more.

In order to allow for even spread and uniformity, only one cookie sheet took up residence in the oven at a time. And between each round, the cookie sheet just used would cool down while the other cookies baked.

There was a rhythm. With just a minute left for the cookies in the oven I would proceed to place the next round onto a parchment lined cookie sheet, delicately smashing the balls down with the palm of my hand.

Rice Balls

Thanksgiving Day

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In retrospect the antipasto was quite filling.

Rice balls. Marinated white anchovies. House cured olives. Formaggio.

This, while the ravioli boiled.

Anticipation.

And then, roast chicken. Foraged mushrooms. Potatoes (both white and sweet). Rapini. Salad.

Bread in the shape of a holiday wreath.

The wine flowed, too. Red.

Espresso. Pumpkin pie. Panettone. Chocolate chip cookies. Chocolates.

I feel like I've missed something, but I haven't.

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Working Smarter

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I was in the wings the entire time. Working away at other food-related tasks (washing lettuce, bringing things to a boil, setting the table).

Roberto pulled together a simple risotto for rice balls. Arborio. Onion. Chicken stock. Parsley. Butter. Salt. Pepper.

He would finish cooking it just as the pasta was set to drain. Then it would sit at the back of the stove to cool while we lingered over dinner.

The next day, while I prepared for the feast (30 minutes on our antique manually-powered ski machine at its highest incline), Roberto added bits of prosciutto and egg to the rice and formed them into balls stuffed with mozzarella.

By the time I had cleaned up, the rice balls had been dredged in flour, egg and breadcrumbs.

An efficient household, to say the least.

With dinner an hour or so away we were both anxious to get the rice balls fried. Actually, I was the anxious one.

I managed to convince Roberto that we should get it done early because we never knew when we'd get the dinner bell. Even with a designated time for dinner there was always a call to come over—the pasta's boiling!

With the last rice ball out of the oil, Roberto set the pot to cool.

A small stainless steel pan was the perfect vessel for transport. We covered it with foil and waited for the call.

Biscuits, Walk and Soup

6:59 a.m.

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The market before Thanksgiving and early risers were already buzzing within the hive. They sought organic turkey and whole milk. Hot coffee to keep their hands warm. Their minds alert. Oversized cookies to keep their children distracted and sedated.

I sought two Italian boules and a basket of apples. No more. No less.

Cream Biscuits

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I heard quiet rustling upstairs as I wrestled the craggy dough to the floured counter. The oven beeped that it was ready, but it was not.

After some kneading and rolling, I cut rounds and placed them onto parchment for baking.

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They're piping hot, but I don't want to take them off the sheet just yet. I had said.

Flip them. He had said.

Of course.

I flipped the biscuits one by one and placed a tea towel over them.

Their bottoms would no longer brown.

A Walk

Soup

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Once home I roasted vegetables (butternut squash, onion, carrot, garlic) for soup.

I left the tray to cool while we ate an early afternoon dinner.

Ambling

Patterson Park: Sunday Morning

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The trees heaved deep silent breaths along the paths.

Steep. Gentle. Flat. Forked.

Our sneakered feet and cool noses led the way from bottom to top and back. Every which way.

Cobbled. Paved. Bricked. Concrete. Faded. Disjointed. Covered. Tread.

I can still feel the chill.

Our hands, warmed from our pockets, rest upon our ears now and then.

The more we move, the warmer we'll get.

He stopped with me. Started, again. Start and stop.

How many pictures do you guess I've taken? 40? 50?

At least that.

We'll find out once we're home...

Last Friday and Giving Thanks

I was caught off guard by the light.

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Last Friday

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A thought occurred to me. Get your camera.

The light was neither perfect or imperfect. It was fleeting.

I would suspend my task (spicy sardine sauce) for the moment.

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Giving Thanks

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I keep typing and deleting. The weight of the words aren't matching the full breath of what I'm feeling.

You stop by. You read. You comment. You take a moment. For me. For this blog.

Thank you.

Soup and Foraging

The recipe called for pearl barley and, the exotic, dried mushrooms.

Alas, our pantry was void of those staples.

No bother. The sachet would not suffer (too much). I stuffed it with the bulk of what was required. Coriander. Fennel. Parsley. Sage. Black peppercorns. Sans the thyme. No thyme. There was just no thyme.

Leek. Carrot. Turnip. Cultivated (cremini) mushrooms. Onion. Celery.

!Whir!—goes the blender.

I've wondered what we'll do with the remaining turnips and leeks. Perhaps a winter—excuse me—perhaps a FALL gratin. Just thinking inner, here.

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Soup for Dinner, Soup for Lunch

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I left just enough soup in the pot to boil 1/2 pound of tubetti. Our Saturday supper.

More pasta than soup would fill Roberto's bowl. More soup than pasta would fill my bowl. Balance.

And three full jars leftover for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday lunch.

I sprinkled parsley into each. With the soup still warm it would slowly steep and sink.

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Foraging

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I've reached the third day of soup for lunch. Day three.

While I sip, I forage for a smile, a bit of inspiration and soup for next week.

Madeleines au Chocolat

It was an impulsive act. Buying a madeleine pan on my lunch break. I had been wanting to make madeleines for quite some time, really.

As I walked out to my car, clutching the plastic bag holding the pan, I can safely say I felt a sense of relief and disappointment. Relief that I could now pursue the elusive madeleine. Disappointment that I had purchased a pan specifically for one cookie. I didn't want to become one of those people.

But then I started to think about the electric kettle sitting in the cupboard. I had used it a grand total of once. Once. Or maybe, twice? At any rate, it's a constant source of levity and a reminder that in order to purchase something there must be good cause and purpose attached to it.

Good cause and purpose. I guess they're one in the same.

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Later, while I was following the instructions to a tee, relief finally took hold. I will admit to a certain amount of uncertainty as far as the consistency of the batter, but once the first batch of madeleines slipped from the pan onto the towel to cool, I was able to breath once more. My stiff torso relaxed. My shoulders loosened.

I had gotten what I had paid for. A shell shaped cookie. Scalloped edges and all.

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I can blame the cocoa, but inexperience plays a role as well. I'm no expert on madeleines. Before that day I had never ingested one. I had to rely on Roberto for assurance that it was going down the right path.

He explained to me how the cookie should be, ideally. A crispy buttery shell that yields to a cake like interior. Cocoa does things, he had said.

I am now anxious to make a traditional madeleine.

Inner Monologue

This turned out better than I expected.

I can't believe these came from our garden.

This towel will never be this white again.

It's going to be too dark by the time the pasta is cooked.

I'm making a mess.

I'd be happy just eating this with some bread.

What a couple of beauties.

The gesture renders me speechless.

Flanked by Citrus

We're running dangerously low.

It wants to be read.

Acclimated.