Christmas Cookies.

What makes a Christmas cookie a Christmas cookie?  I ask myself this question every year as I prepare to bake.  Since I became a full-time homemaker I usually organize my thoughts and baking pantry in November, beginning with a thorough detailing of my kitchen.  That didn't happen this year - for some reason the time is flying much faster than I can fathom.  But I'm nearly done with my baking for the season, using my method of batch-a-day baking, which I pretty much have always done around Christmastime since setting off on my own.  It might be hard to make 12 kinds of cookies in a single day, but 12 types over a couple of weeks, even when holding down a couple of jobs is surprisingly easy.  Or maybe just surprisingly easy for someone who loves to bake.

Frequently I end up with more than 12 types of sweets, but 12 is my goal for a nice selection for a cookie plate or tin.  I like to choose naturally long-lasting things to bake first like biscotti, and then move on those that freeze well after baking, leaving any more perishable types for last minute.  But I'm not so much an icebox cookie fan; the slice and bake notion is appealing, but requires some finesse that I can't always muster.  (But, I did make time and patience enough for these Cinnamon Pinwheels from King Arthur Flour.  The dough was a bit tricky and soft, but they paid off.)

I have no rhyme or reason for Christmas cookies, what makes my cookies Christmas cookies is baking them around Christmastime.  It's unfortunate that I never make decorated sugar cut-out shapes.  My Mom makes dozens and dozens of sugar cookies at Christmas.  For the bulk of my youth, visions of wax paper lined countertops with drying cookies decorated by our family signaled that Christmas was almost here.  My Mom would spread the icing and my brothers and I, armed with sprinkles and colored sanding sugar, and red hot candies (not to mention the silver dragees that were not intended to be eaten but always were), would take turns making miniature, edible artworks.  I don't think I'm exaggerating that some years there were upwards of 70 dozen when we finished.  They were stored in big plastic bowls on our old-fashioned, naturally frozen back porch, and given freely to nearly every friend and neighbor.

I can't say that I have many traditions of my own like that.  I make different cookies every year, ones that catch my attention here and there, ones that might require slightly more dedication than a non-holiday event cookie.  Some are just plain, however.  One of my favorites happens to be this one from a decade-old Martha Stewart Magazine:  Grammy's Chocolate Cookies.  I do make this cookie nearly every year, so I suppose in a way it has become my tradition.

These cookies don't seem remarkable, until you pop one in your mouth.  They are definitely the cookie that you swear you remember sitting at your grandmother's table eating too many of... along with a glass of cold milk of course.  They store well in the freezer and at room temperature, and the recipe makes a lot.  I like to use coarser raw sugar for rolling them in; it makes them sparkle a bit more. 

I always make the dough the day before using it, or at least several hours before if I'm in a hurry.  If you rush it, the butter-heavy dough melts into a big mess when you attempt rolling it into balls.  I know from experience.  I adapted the way I store the dough to allow for less mess.

Grammy's Chocolate Cookies (Martha Stewart Magazine - but this recipe differs from the in print version)
yield about 6 dozen

• 2 cups + 2 Tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 3/4 cup Dutch cocoa powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 10 oz. butter (2 1/2 sticks) unsalted, butter room temperature
• 2 cups granulated sugar (additional granulated or raw sugar for dipping)
• 2 large eggs
• 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

Sift flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt together in a medium bowl.  Set aside.

In a large bowl (or the bowl of  a stand mixer with the paddle attachment), beat the butter with the sugar and eggs until fluffy, at least 3 minutes.  Add the vanilla, and beat another minute to combine.  (Scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed.)

Reduce mixer speed to low and add the sifted dry ingredients slowly until just mixed.  Spread a sheet of parchment (or cling film will work too) out on the counter, and transfer the dough onto it.  Use a knife to spread it into a flattish rectangle, and top with another sheet of parchment (or cling film).  Put the dough in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours and up to 2 days.  (Make sure the dough is well covered so the air doesn't get at it.)

When ready to bake, preheat the oven to 350, and line sheet pans with parchment paper.  Use a bench scraper to portion the dough into 1 inch squares, and roll each between your palms to make balls.  Drop them into a bowl of raw sugar (or more granulated sugar) to coat, and place them about 2 inches apart on the baking sheets.  (If the dough softens too much at room temperature, pop it back in the fridge as you are waiting on the batches.)

Bake for 10-12 minutes, rotating pans halfway through the baking time.  Let the cookies stand on the pans for 5 minutes after baking before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

When I was back home visiting for Thanksgiving, I picked up the most gorgeous raw sugar from one of the Amish bulk stores that dot the countryside near my parents house.  I was disappointed that trying to take a picture of it proved so tough.  It was some of the prettiest, sparkly sugar I've ever seen.  Even though it was an off-white color, I used it to coat my frosted cranberries.  The recipe is from Heidi Swanson at 101 Cookbooks, and I've been making them since she first introduced me to them in 2009.  I've found that using half the amount of simple syrup (or twice the amount of cranberries, since they are so addicting) works fine.  I also save the pink syrup to use in other things.

I've all but wrapped up my baking for this year.  There is a bowl of jam thumbprint dough chilling that I'll need to attend to, and just this morning I decided to make the world's easiest (and tastiest!) peanut butter fudge.  All that remains is double checking the list I keep on the counter to make sure I don't forget any varieties that are stashed throughout the house, and matching plate or tin sizes to recipients.  I don't plan to give out a ton of cookies, really, but I bake in December for the sheer joy of baking.  Believe it or not, I don't end up eating very many myself (except for those cranberries: I usually have to make a second or third batch of them).  Whatever cookies you made or wish you made for the season, I wish you all a Merry Christmas! 

Bearing Witness.

It seems I have an unusual amount of guilt over not making a priority of writing things down here lately.  I went the whole month of November with one solitary post recanting my canning season. November came and went much too quickly, but during that month, I really hit my stride with getting our new family member into a solid routine.  I also got quite good at getting supper on the table in a timely fashion, at the same time nearly every evening.  Food waste is at an all time low, with meals recycling into the "never-ending meals" that Tamar Adler so adequately wrote a book about.  I still hear her voice in my head when I bring a pot of water to a boil, and always make more rice than I need, because it will always find a use.

 I also seem to have been hearing the term "bearing witness" around quite a bit lately.  The notion that our existences depend on others noticing us.  In the food writing world, maybe that means that for one split moment we have been first to entice or discover (or more appropriately, rediscover) the next most excellent thing that everyone wants to make, or written the next most beautiful book that seems to be on everyone's shelf...  For me, it's the tree falling in the forest phenomenon:  if I disappear from the world of this intricately woven Internet fabric, will anyone notice or was I actually ever here at all?  If I choose to live in the small moments of the day without much interaction from the web of computer voices, will the people I know forget me?

We went out to the farm for Thanksgiving, where we had far too few family members to eat the 17 pound turkey that was raised down the road from my Parents house. The sheer quiet of the land in that part of our state always gets me.  In this time of year in particular, when the birds are near silent, and the trees absent of leaves, crispy air hits your vocal chords and there is no echo; it's just quiet and clear.  My Mom found a little box of silverware that belonged to my Great-Grandmother, and I found that I couldn't stop thinking about it.  Little silver plated coffee spoons and pickle forks, because people needed such things in the world years ago.

I've had my children too late in life for them to know much of their Great-Grandparents, but I grew up in the kitchen of my Nana, some of my most vivid memories of food are her old-country ways of doing things.  The way of doing things that is so truly wholesome and handmade it makes anything I do now pale in comparison.  I told my Mom how I love my Vitamix so much (she doesn't even have a blender right now) and how I used it to chop everything lickety split for my salsa this year, and in a later conversation she said how she can remember her Grandmother chopping her vegetables for her soup.  Chop, chop, chop.  In that little northwoods kitchen with no one to see or hear, no one to photograph or bear witness to that supreme act of love she lived out by nourishing other people.  Thinking about that on my trip home almost made me want to get rid of my Vitamix.  Almost.

It takes about 3 hours to drive back to our house on the southside of Milwaukee.  When my 7 year old boy was chatting with me in the car about when he moves away from me someday it kind of  hit me hard.  "Well I hope you won't move too far away, " I said.  "I won't."  "But you might!  You never know." I tried to remember than I have at least 10 years before worrying too much about such things.  But that dear boy just said that he wouldn't be far, he'd be in the country.  He wants to live rurally, maybe just because I let him play outside unattended there, but I think he really likes it deep down.  

I am pretty cautious about letting him into too much technology.  Most of his classmates talk about things he doesn't have any idea about, video games and iPads and stuff that I just don't want him to concern himself with, in part I think because I wish I never got involved in it myself.  But therein lies the double edge:  I have met real people that I truly like; I have a part in bearing witness to the lives of others in a real albeit virtual way.  But if I choose to watch the little babe try and roll over for too many minutes, if I don't feel like setting up the tripod to capture the tarts or the cupcakes or the non-photogenic foods that sustain us (the turkey carcass now boiling down on the stove that is too large to fit fully in my pot), or if I choose not to poetically conjure my next meal, does that mean I slip hopelessly from the consciousness of others?

At least until the new year, I am choosing to not worry too much about it.  I want to always remember to live in the small moments of the everyday, not to jump up at the signals of my phone that notify of a text or email or a repost of something that will fade fast into the virtual world without much help from my anyway.  I want to remember every second of my little boys before they grow into big men  who sometimes have a hard time making it home for Thanksgiving.

I'm not disappearing just yet, but maybe just making myself a bit more scarce.