Last weekend we made cookies.
Rather, I made cookies.
I have realized that I am a selfish chef. I do not like to have my children helping me in the kitchen. I find cooking and baking to be a gloriously solitary pursuit. I’m working on this. I do consider competence in the kitchen to be a prerequisite for adulthood, and it is my responsibility to teach it. But for these cookies, it was mostly just me.
I made three different types: crinkled molasses cookies, peanut butter with chocolate chips, and a variation on snickerdoodles. I have a different recipe than the one listed here, but they are all fairly similar: it’s a sugar cookie rolled in cinnamon sugar. These were a favorite from my childhood, and I make them every so often for my kids. Sometimes, I make what I call cinnerdoodles instead, and I put the cinnamon in the dough and just roll them in sugar. They are a bit more cinnamon-y. That’s what I did this time.
Of course, the cookies weren’t really for us, they were for my husband. I hope they survive the journey.
Yesterday we headed to the post office, and I asked Fritz to carry the heavy box out to the van.
“What’s in here?” he groaned.
“Cookies, M&Ms, magazines, your dad’s Cincinnati Reds hat, a cigar cutter…”
“Yes, I ordered your dad some cigars for his birthday.”
“They’re allowed to smoke there?”
“Yes, honey, they can’t drink, but they can smoke.”
“That doesn’t make any sense! Smoking is much worse than drinking!”
These are the life lessons my kids are learning. Of course, the drinking that goes on here is very moderate. I grew up with a dad who smoked a pipe, but rarely drank – not because he thought alcohol was bad, but because it just wasn’t his thing. I considered (still consider) pipe and cigar smoking, in moderation, as a harmless and rather pleasant pastime, but as a kid thought drinking was dangerous and even bad. Interesting.