The Life of a Cookie

Image from meals.com

Contrary to liberal propaganda, the life of a cookie begins when all ingredients are first mixed together. If we are to measure by kitchen scales, it begins precisely at the moment when the chocolate chips first rain down from heaven, giving the cookie its raison d'etre.

Chocolate consciousness ekes in, giving life to what was a rather dull mass of Crisco, sugars, baking soda, flour, salt, and almond extract. The spirit of the cookie is at this time one and varied, a collective consciousness, if you will, a Lacanian hum that varies between the I and the We.

They/It is aware of the red smooth sides of its roofless womb, the carrier that holds its unformed mass. Above them is the bleary face of Our Father, Who Art in the Kitchen. Their Father is hungover, a credit to all creators who continue to make and bake in the face of unspeakable obstacles, namely, the desire to still be in bed.

"Bakers gonna bake, bake, bake, bake, bake," says Prophet T. Swift.

Their Father lifts them from their cool red womb/bowl, giving them a glimpse of a Kitchen littered with torn-open goodie bags from something called "The Black Cat Ball," in order to wrap them in a plastic shroud, to rest for hours in an enclosed tomb, one that is cool and sparse. If this time were represented by the tarot, it would be the time of the Four of Swords. On one side of them is a shriveled half of a tangerine, crying for its lost youth, and on the other a circular container of Gorgonzola, proud in its rapid and frequent use.

Time passes. Hours for humans is a lifetime for cookie dough, which awaits the sweet culmination of their life in the hot mouth of a Superior Being.

And then their tomb opens, and a different Father lifts them from their shelf. Unwrapping their plastic shroud, he refers to a script scrawled on the back of an envelope, left for him by the Original Father. Second Father separates the I/We mass, giving individual life to the cookies, and places them in the Oven of Formation, where they will grow into the shape meant for them by Almighty and Longer-Living Father.

It is whence they emerge from the Oven of Formation that their individual lives begin, the ones that set them aside from all cookies before them. They are placed in a wicker basket and covered with a towel.

"I wish you had told me earlier you weren't coming," booms the voice of their Original Father to their Second Father, who sits at the table.

"I'm sorry, baby. Have a good time," thunders the second voice. And then, with a terrific clatter, the door is opened and the cookies feel a blast of cool air from the World Beyond.

It has started! What a joy, to be feeling the air and on their way to their Final Culmulation!

They swing in their basket down the stairs, down to the basement, and balance in the air in what can only be described as a stunning feat of balance and skill as Their Father pedals down the dark city streets, singing to himself.

Their journey is punctuated by the puh-dunk, puh-dunk of first one, then the other wheel as it jostles over raised portions of the road. The cookies know this by intuition, and because they are more intelligent than the haughtier cakes and pies believe. The cookies and their creator are lulled into a feeling of safety, and perhaps that is why they didn't sufficiently prepare for the rough speed-bump that surprised them when they were ever-so-close to the party.

"Whee!" some of the cookies--a third? half?--cried as they were thrown (leapt?) from under the towel and over the lip of the basket. The plunge was thrilling--scary but titillating to their chocolate nibs. And then there was the pavement, rushing up to them, and for just a second--one long, terrible second, they realized that it was not their fate to meet their end crumbled in the hot mouth of a Superior.

Meanwhile, their creator and fellow cookies had skidded to a stop by the curb. The towel was quickly thrown back and stock taken of the remaining troops. Shaken and some of them broken, they huddled together to make themselves appear larger, like a frightened animal.

"Damnit," growled their creator, as he looked back at the fallen ranks, considering. But he shook his head and continued forward, bravely, and considerably more carefully this time.

The cookies and their creator arrived at the party, where they were promptly separated. The cookies tingled with excitement. With the loss of many of their comrades, they felt all the more special for having made it, and looked forward eagerly to their fate. Unfortunately, many of them were set aside in the kitchen, while only a chosen few settled on a gorgeous spread to join perfectly formed store-bought Swedish cookies on a platter.

"They'll be waiting here a little longer than we, don't cha know," said one Rosenmunnar to another (it turned out they were more Minnesotan than Swedish).

However, there's something eternally attractive about a chocolate chip cookie, though. If they took the Enneagram, they'd be a two: a people-pleaser. And so one by one, they reached their sweet end in the hot mouth of an intoxicated gay man.

Southern Decadence

Image courtesy of allposters.com

Thursday my day was blocked off by the hour, as written on the back of an envelope, which I referred to periodically to ensure I was on the correct task and timeframe. When I used forty minutes where I would have stood "idly" around and cleaned to instead do my grocery shopping (allotted for two pm), I was very proud of myself for my good use of time.

As I've noticed before, when given a shorter amount of time, my baking is quick and "matter-of-fact." I wanted to make a pecan pie this week, as I had been craving it for awhile. The Good Housekeeping version is very similar to my grandmother's recipe, though hers involves more pecans and less sugar, but right before I went grocery shopping my good friend Mitch gave me an enormous bag full Southern Living (which I continue to mistakenly call "Southern Comfort") magazines. The cover of one of those was a salted caramel chocolate pecan pie.

Heaven! Just what I wanted! So I branched off from my Good Housekeeping and made something from a different source. It was quick, easy, and is delicious! Though it is so rich I can only eat very little at a time (not a bad thing).

In the process of arranging the pecans

Drowning in caramel sauce!

When I described it to my (vegan) coworker Sydney, she said: “It sounds like diabetes.” And yeah, I totally see that. It is decadent. So southern and decadent it makes me feel like I live in an old plantation house, where I spend my days and nights alone, drifting down the dusty halls and grand staircase in my torn kimono, sipping my mint julep (minus the mint, sugar, and water) and talking to my fluffy white cat, Antebellum.

"Why, Antebellum, what a mighty fine day we're havin'," I'll murmur in Blanche Devereaux's voice, trying to focus my bleary eyes out at the setting sun dappling the magnolia trees, which are choked by Spanish moss. "I feel like a short-legg'd pony in a tall field'a grass."

The magnificent grandfather clock will chime five o'clock, signalling the hour for pie. I'll float over to a long table, where my gorgeous salted caramel chocolate pecan pie sits on a tiny china plate with a silver fork set beside it. A rusty lounge singer in a ratty boa will emerge from the gloom of the dining room, accompanied by a band in faded tuxedos, to sing "My Old Kentucky Home" in a wavering contralto. From then she'll move on to Patsy Cline's "If I Could Only Stay Asleep" (or Patsy Cline ANYTHING!), and I'll be singing through a mouth full of pie, and pretty soon you can't tell who's the lounge singer and who's the pie-eater.

So yeah, y'all, it's good.

Guilty Pleasures

photo from wbez.org

This week, Elise took me to Links Hall to see their residency shows. Links Hall is a performance venue (with a full bar!) that also offers four residencies a year, giving rehearsal space, a modest stipend, and a mentor who is a working artist in Chicago to the participating artists. It seems like a great program, and Elise should be a part of it. I can just imagine what six months of rehearsal time would yield for her work!

The two performances last night were in very different stages of development: The first felt very much like we were inside the mind of the artist and seeing the ideas about Third Culture she was bouncing around, but a piece had yet to emerge. The residency gave her time to delve into it, to get some stories out and some articulation to an Idea she wanted to work with.

The second piece felt much more like a finished product, though there was a disclaimer that it was a work-in-progress and may continue to grow and break off into separate entities. It was titled Amok, and was written and directed by the artist Karen Yates. It began with a gamelan ensemble, which made me think of my mom, who introduced me to gamelan music when she played in an ensemble in Lexington. Then nutmeg was passed around to be held and sniffed, and the performers began reciting recipes for spiced wine, or a melange to ward off the plague or impotence. From there the piece delved into the spice trade, the voracious and relentless Jan Coen of the VOC, and the volcanic eruption of Krakatoa.

I take spices for granted. Sure, their trade isn't as brutal as it once was, but I rarely think about where they come from when I buy them at the grocery store. For a moment I wonder "Where did this come from?" as I reach for paprika or cumin, but the question doesn't linger for long or develop. Amok was a satisfying bite into the disturbing reality of where popular spices like pepper, cinnamon, and nutmeg came from.

From the beginning of the performance, I thought of the spice cake I made months ago, the one that prompted me to begin this blog, so when at one point a performer came high-stepping onto the stage in a red apron chanting: "This is how you make a cake! A cake. A CAKE," I felt like giving a little hoot. Her exaggerated stirring pantomime gave way to a brutal punching motion, and her face and voice took on a Hulk-like quality. Oh yes, I remembered, this isn't a Good Housekeeping recipe.

It was an involving, intelligent performance, and I'd encourage you to keep an eye on Yates's website to see how it develops.

All this said, this week I made a pie with a noticeable absence of spice. I am ever so slowly working my way through The Office, and this week I watched an episode where the Everyman hero, Jim Halpert, tries to make the best out of a day in a cramped "work bus" and more importantly, to give his paramour a sweet surprise, by convincing his nemesis/friend to drive the office to a little pie stand.

"What do we want?"
"Pies!"
"When do we want it?"
"Pies!"

They talk about the glory of banana cream pie, and how it is always the first to sell out, and that made me want to make one.

The magnificent Banana Cream Pie by Gardner Pie Co. (Akron, OH)

I had a big fantasy of what a banana cream pie would like like and involve, but in reality, the Good Housekeeping version is vanilla pudding, banana slices, and whipped cream in a vanilla wafer crumb crust.

But you know, that's ok, too. Good Housekeeping offers little (no) guidance on how to garnish the pie, so I took inspiration from the internet:

culinary.net

and decided not to go with the diner variety:

WHIPPED CREAM AND WAFERS 4 LIFE

My finished product:

I tried to be fancy with the whipped cream and added salt and vanilla. Too much salt. So I tried to compensate with honey. The result is not so bad, when it combines with the sweet filling. The cake is maybe still not fully set, since when I cut a piece the filling and whipped cream sort of seeped in to fill the empty space. But I had to try it RIGHT NOW! 

It's pretty good. Guilty-pleasure good, like listening to a playlist of Katy Perry and ABBA. 

The Peace in Recipes and Cake Gore

Today I made a walnut fudge cake, and it took hours. I needed to pick up some things from the store, and that helped me realize how expensive this weekly baking project is. Along with the weight I (imagine?) I'm putting on (I went clothes shopping on Wednesday and realized I'm definitely a 30-inch waist now), this goal has an impact on my finances as well. I do a good job not thinking too much about either.

Because once I start measuring the ingredients and setting out my mixing bowls, I become calm and happy. The recipes give an order to the next hour or two of my day, and it sets out attainable goals, the finished product of which will be there, visible to me and the world, and ready to be enjoyed.

The cake is three layers, two crunchy fillings, and a thick glaze of chocolatey-nutty sweetness.

Howard and I enjoyed our slices with mugs of fresh-made coffee and our three (out of four) familiars around us. Twinkle Toes rolling around on the table beside me, prompting me to say I don't think I should ever have children because they'd never compare to his perfect adorability, Suki dozing next to Howard, and the dog grunting and snuffling around the room, leaving his vapors and trails of farts and mucus in his wake. Georgella dwells like a banished queen in the bedroom, where she occasionally yowls at the door, wanting us to come to bed so she can sleep on us and groom my beard. 

Last night, once Howard got home from school around one in the morning, he introduced me to, and consequently slept through, the Italian film The Beyond, of the Giallo genre. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, Giallo films are known for their extreme violence and gore. The Beyond was set in a broken-down hotel in Louisiana which happened to be built on one of the seven doorways to Hell. It was not a very coherent movie, but what it lacked in plot and continuity it made up with multiple face-meltings and a man eaten by tarantulas. The above picture is a cake-version of Giallo: a close-up shot of gooey insides. Yum. 

Cranberry-Nut Pie

I have retreated to the other end of the apartment to hide from the workmen whose head-splitting drill sporadically screeches. The only surface I have to roll out dough is our dining room table, which is where they are working, doing something mysterious having to do with pipes and our water pressure (which is currently rather lackluster). So I rolled out my crust, from dough I made according to my coworker's recipe (which is a gorgeous gold and so easy to work with!), and threw together the most pathetic-looking lattice (it took two attempts, the second not noticeably better than the first), and then high-tailed it out of there.

I made a cranberry-nut pie today, which seemed like another great fall flavor. I'm also looking forward to pumpkin and pecan pies! It was impossible to find the fresh cranberries the recipe called for, so instead I used two jars of whole cranberry sauce, which cut out half of the preparation time. Hope that works out. I then forgot to mix in the nuts and raisins, so I ended up mixing them in after the cranberry sauce was in the pie crust.

No matter the mistakes made in the process, it smells delicious baking, and bubbles enticingly out of the oven. I will take it to Mitch's house to share!

Midnight Autumn Pie

On this night I made an apple custard pie, thus completing the first page of pies in my Good Housekeeping Cookbook, also marking my return to pies, which I had given up during the heat of the summer, and while making this pie Howard started putting together our dresser. It was a picture of domestic bliss. As Wendy Cope says in her poem "The Orange:" "This is peace and contentment. It's new."

For a period there I felt like I was churning out the apple pies, and needed a break. It's been long enough that an apple pie started sounding appetizing again.

It is headed full-tilt into autumn in Chicago, which makes Howard gleeful. I enjoy the chill and the change in dress. Fall is my favorite season, and my mind is itching to quote one of my favorite poets, Rachel Wetzsteon, who shares my feeling, but of course when I look through my books I can't find the particular poem that tickles the back of my mind.

Fall is also, of course, the season of the salted caramel mocha, which is cause for celebration enough. I'd like to make a salted caramel pie of some kind. Any suggestions?

The pie crust went well tonight, after the first attempt, at least. I rolled it out between sheets of plastic wrap, but forgot to dust them with flour, so the dough stuck and I had to start over. The second time was much easier. I had chilled the dough and liberally sprinkled flour, so I was able to transfer it to the pie plate easily enough. I dented the crust with a fork and used a fluted pastry wheel to trim the edges.

I placed the thin slices of apples--which had been coated in flour, sugar, cinnamon, and a touch of salt--in concentric circles in the pie crust and poured the custard (with a dash of nutmeg!) over it. It baked for 45 minutes covered with foil, and is in the oven now for another thirty, then it has to be cooled and finally, refrigerated. We were hoping to have some tonight with vanilla ice cream, but that is looking unlikely. Or at least, it will be around midnight before we get to it. Midnight pie!

Freezer Lemon Pie

Today started as one of those I-don't-know-why-I-feel-so-bad days. Listless and irritated, nothing was satisfying. The one thing I hoped Howard and I would do today--hang shelves--didn't happen, and he didn't seem to mind.

"You could hang pictures, instead," he suggested, not paying mind to my irritability, and the result of his comment is that I became more irritated. I could hang pictures, he suggests, as if he didn't care if pictures go on the walls or not, as if he didn't have a say where they go, as if he wouldn't mind if I put cat pictures on every single wall of this apartment.

And then an ugly part of myself wondered: "What's the point?" Certainly, I have given up the fantasy of painting--the bedroom a rich plum, dining room colonial blue, and the kitchen blood red. But if we are here for just a year, what's the point? I do want to make this place a home, I feel driven to do that, to make it mine, ours, really, but then this listlessness drifts in and mutters: "So what?"; it yawns and asks: "Why bother?"

But I don't want to give into the lethargy, which is a kind of death. So I will make a pie and I will hang a goddamn picture and a calendar. I will hang them like twentieth century criminals.

So I went into the kitchen and pounded two nails into the wall. Up went a Grumpy Cat calendar and up went artwork over the sink. Then I took the rolling pin and pounded a package of graham crackers. Bam Bam Bam! until they were crumbs. Considerably less tense, I poured in organic sugar, a gift from Kate, who when I thought of her seemed to lend me some of her gentleness. "What Would Kate Do?" my supervisor at work asked. "Remember that. Remember her generosity and the way she gave people the benefit of the doubt." Kate is gone now, on a road trip, and then Florida, and she has become the Patron Saint of work.

From then on, the day got considerably better. Just making something pulled me out of my funk. I did some writing for the Tumbleweed Diaries, and later on Elise came to visit, bringing me my mixer. I finished up the pie and put it in the freezer. It was a hot day--supposed to be 90, but didn't feel quite that, so Howard and I picked a cold-sounding pie that required a minimum of baking: lemon freezer pie. Instead of a traditional pie crust, I opted for a graham cracker crumb crust, which just spends 8 minutes in the oven. Lemon pie is just evaporated milk, frozen lemonade, and sugar. I'm almost embarrassed to write that. But it's delicious. Howard, Elise, and I had slices and then we played cards. It was a lovely evening, such a difference from the start of the day. I do think creating has a healing power.

And making oneself at home in a new space is important. Having a friend over to share pie is a good start. This week we will work on hanging pictures and shelves.