They're just cookies

When I was in high school, I was the show choir accompanist. I was nowhere as cool as the piano player with the beard in "Glee" who Husband loves, but I was pretty hardcore nevertheless. For example, I totally got mono from my boyfriend one December, during the show choir's busy season. I remember sitting at a baby grand at a country club somewhere robotically playing "Here Comes Santa Claus" while the choir director waved her hand in front of my face, trying to get my attention. I was really sick, but I would not stop. Must. Play. Christmas songs. And. Showtunes. At. All. Costs.


Anyway. Every so often I'd get to come out from behind the piano. One Christmas, the choir gathered in a charming vignette to sing an a capella version of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." Several of us were chosen to interject lovely little spoken-word memories of Christmas. While my fellow show choir-ers talked about Santa Claus and gifts and youthful memories and elven magic, when it came my turn I said something like, "I remember coming home from church of Christmas Eve to delicious trays of cookies and coffee."

Yes, cookies and coffee. Baked goods are really important at Christmastime.


We would always bake our Christmas cookies from Betty Crocker's Cooky Book, a tome about which I've gushed effusively in the space in the past. There were always chocolate crinkles, Russian teacakes, jubilee jumbles and lemon squares displayed artfully on a porcelain tray shaped like a Christmas tree. Well, it was artful for a second, but then we got our hands on the tray and all hell broke loose. Powdered sugar everywhere.


And then there were the cream wafers. Too delicate and pretty to be scarfed like the jubilee jumbles, I always thought of the cream wafers as "adult" cookies. They were fancy, and scalloped, and filled with a pastel frosting and coated in a thin layer of sparkling, sandy sugar. They were called "wafers." Clearly too grown-up to be inhaled by the children. For that reason, I hardly ever ate them when I was little. Which is completely ridiculous, you know, because they're just cookies. But in my little head, they were to be relished and savored in a way that demanded a certain maturity.


So now that I'm, like, mature and stuff, I made a batch. And they are amazing. And now I am kicking myself for missing out for so long. Decades lost to inaccurate cream wafer perception. Tragic.

Just think how compelling my spoken-word show-choir vignette contribution would have been had I been eating the cream wafers.



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CREAM WAFERS
Adapted from Betty Crocker's Cooky Book


The note in the book says, "Delicate pastry-like rounds with a rich filling. A lovely addition to the cooky trays for a tea or reception." Indeed. The dough bakes up almost like puff pastry, to the point that you have to dock it to prevent too much rise. Dainty and charming and melty on the tongue. Divine.

The dough has to chill for at least an hour, or overnight if you like. And if life gets in the way and you don't get back to your cream wafer dough for a few days, don't worry. The dough really can hold in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.


The wafers:
1 c. unsalted butter
1/3 c. whipping cream
2 c. all-purpose flour, sifted
About 1/2 c. sugar, to roll the cookies
1 batch creamy butter filling (below)

Creamy butter filling:
1/4 c. unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 c. powdered sugar, sifted
1 egg yolk (pasteurized, if you are so inclined)
1 t. vanilla


First, make the dough. Place the butter and cream in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Cream until they are well combined. Add the flour and mix thoroughly. Place the dough in a bowl and cover with plastic wrap; chill at least 1 hour, or up to 3 days.

When you are ready to make the cookies, remove the dough from the refrigerator about 30 minutes before you want to work with it, to allow it to warm up enough to be rolled. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

Place the sugar on a plate. Roll the dough to 1/8" thickness on a lightly floured board. Cut into 1 1/2" rounds, using a fluted cutter if desired. Place the cookies on the plate with the sugar, turning to coat both sides (you might have to press a bit to get the sugar to stick).

Place the cookies on an ungreased baking sheet. Prick the cookies with a fork to "dock" the dough. Bake 7-9 minutes, until slightly puffy.


Remove to a wire rack to cool completely.


While the cookies are cooling, make the filling. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the butter, powdered sugar, egg yolk and vanilla. Mix until well-combined. Divide the filling in half; tint half with red food coloring and half with green.

To assemble the cookies, sandwich two cookies together with about 1/2 t. of filling.



Makes about 3 dozen filled cookies.


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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: cocoa blocks
Two years ago: chocolate-almond saltine toffee

Most special

Hello Dolly bars are the sweet, gooey pillar upon which the joyous Christmases of my youth rest. They were omnipresent: on every cookie tray, in each cousin's hand, presented in abundance on the card table my aunt would set up in front of her living room closet for the express purpose of holding Christmas cookies.

(Studly cousin Jeff on Christmas morning 1984, in front of the festive tablecloth-covered cookie card table.)

I didn't know back then that they were a relatively common bar cookie. I didn't know that anyone else had ever heard of Hello Dolly bars. I thought my extended family was really onto something...a super-secret amalgamation of graham cracker, nuts, chocolate, butterscotch, coconut and Eagle Milk.


For you see, my aunt -- the one with the cookie card table -- is named Dolly. (Actually, she is named Georgeann, but everyone throughout the history of time has only called her Dolly.) And she is an amazing cookie-baker (she made all the cookies for my wedding favors). I thought the cookies were named for her. Like, Hello, Dolly! We are here to eat your cookies! It wasn't until, like, 2003 that I realized they were (a) common, and (b) named after Carol Channing. OK, I don't know if they were named after Carol Channing, but I know for certain that they weren't named after Georgeann Shearer.


But just because something is popular doesn't mean it's not perfect in every way. (See: Glee, Tater Tots, "Single Ladies.") I'm happy I can't imagine Christmas without a pan of Hello Dolly bars. I'm glad that I can still picture them on the card table, next to those peanut butter cookies with the Hershey's Kisses planted firmly atop them.


So though Hello Dolly bars are nothing special, they are most special to me. If someone told me that I could only have one cookie at Christmastime, I would choose the Hello Dolly bar. They're rich, and sweet, and crumbly, and more than able to support a childhood's worth of happy Christmas memories.

Even if they're not named after my aunt.



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HELLO DOLLY BARS


These delicious cookies are an absolute snap to make. Which is good for when you need a quick dessert (or for when you have a craving).


1/2 c. (1 stick) unsalted butter
2 c. graham cracker crumbs (about 18 graham crackers, pulsed in the food processor)
1 c. sweetened coconut
6 oz. butterscotch chips
6 oz. semi-sweet chocolate chips
3/4 c. walnuts, roughly chopped
1 14-oz. can sweetened, condensed milk (I prefer Eagle Brand)


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

Melt the butter over low heat directly in a 13" x 9" metal pan. Sprinkle the graham cracker crumbs over the butter and mix to combine. Using your fingers, pat the graham cracker crust into an even layer on the bottom of the pan.



Sprinkle the coconut over the crust, followed by the butterscotch chips, chocolate chips and walnuts. Drizzle the sweetened, condensed milk evenly over the cookies, then bake for 20 minutes.



Remove from the oven and let cool completely before cutting into bars.



Makes 3 dozen cookies.

A rich hunk of chocolate

So you know it's bad news when your dad tells you he doesn't bother going to your blog anymore.

"I keep reading about those kaiser rolls, but there's never anything new."

Well, Father, as usual you are correct. I have been noticeably low-key around these parts for the past few weeks. Maybe I should blame the turkey:

(Father, expert carver of my brined bird.)

Or the spectacular view of Manhattan from our Hoboken hotel-room perch last weekend:

(Post-dinner at Diner.)

(Pre-"breakfast" at Shake Shack.)

Or Shake Shack, which we ate twice in two days, in the car mind you because the weather was so frightful:

(Note gearshift.)

(Steaming up the car windows with our Shake Shack.)

Or the cute dog, who requires and deserves a great deal of attention:

(No caption necessary.)

Or the Christmas decorations, which, you know, should be in place before the 25th:


Or the couch, my warm and inviting nemesis:


Yes, I've been otherwise occupied. And my little bloggy space has suffered. So today I offer chocolate on a stick -- something decadent enough to take your mind off my inappropriate absence. Because if anything's a distraction, a rich hunk of chocolate is.


A rich hunk of chocolate (or 36) is also a good thing to have on hand in December, when you might need a festive treat while decorating the tree, or listening to Christmas carols, or welcoming friends and long-lost family members. These cocoa blocks are perfect for just such occasions: chunks of creamy chocolate you can swirl in a mug of hot milk to create a deeply flavorful cup of hot chocolate -- or that you can just eat straight off the stick, depending on your patience and sweet tooth. When I think of December, I think of blustery snow, cable-knit sweaters and steaming mugs of cheerful soul-sating goodness. These cocoa blocks fit right in with that image, and are particularly perfect on Christmas morning.


They're also really easy to make, so you can get right back to the couch if you want. I won't judge you.


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COCOA BLOCKS
Adapted from the King Arthur Flour catalog


I used a bit of almond extract to add a non-chocolate complimentary dimension to these treats, but they would be equally delicious with an equal amount of vanilla extract or a drop or two of peppermint oil. Or even a drop of cinnamon oil (how very Mayan). Or you can skip the extra flavoring entirely and just go for the full-on chocolate.

Also, please note that the cocoa blocks need to stand overnight to set, so plan accordingly.

One final note: unless you are going to use all 36 cocoa blocks at once, I find it easiest to cut the blocks, then wrap the whole batch together in parchment paper and a layer of plastic wrap BEFORE adding the wooden sticks. Store at room temperature and insert the sticks before serving. (It's challenging to store 36 cocoa blocks on sticks.)


1/2 c. (4 oz.) heavy cream
14-oz. can sweetened, condensed milk
3 c. (18 oz.) semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
3/4 c. (4 oz.) unsweetened chocolate, coarsely chopped
1/4 t. almond extract (or flavoring of your choice; see above)
1 T. cocoa powder, for dusting
Wooden sticks


Line an 8"x 8" pan with parchment paper, allowing for an overhang of parchment on all 4 sides that you'll use to grip and remove the cocoa blocks once they're set.


In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, heat the cream and condensed milk over low heat until it simmers and steams. Remove from heat and add the chocolate; allow it to melt gently.


After 10 minutes, return the chocolate mixture to low heat to melt the chocolate completely. Whisk until the chocolate is thick and shiny, which only takes a few minutes. Add the almond extract and whisk to combine.

Pour the chocolate mixture into the prepared pan; level with an off-set spatula. Using a small sieve, sprinkle the cocoa powder over the chocolate to coat the surface. Set aside overnight, uncovered, at room temperature to set.


The next day, remove the chocolate from the pan using the excess parchment overhang. Heat a knife by running it under hot water. Dry the knife and cut the chocolate into 1 1/4"-inch squares, cleaning and reheating the knife occasionally to ensure even cuts.


Place a wooden stick into the center of each block, taking care not to stick it all the way through.


Eat straight off the block, or stir into a cup of hot milk. Repeat.

(Husband = cocoa block beneficiary.)

Makes 36 blocks.

Better than no days in the Barossa

It is criminal that we only stayed in the Barossa Valley for two days.

But that's what we get for planning too many things in too little time. And that's what we get for thinking Australia is smaller than it actually is, for making the assumption that a 615-mile trek from Melbourne to Adelaide via the Great Ocean Road can be made quickly. It just can't be made quickly, nor should it be. You want to stop along the way, maybe have a piece of cake and pet a beagle in Port Fairy, maybe take off your shoes and dip your toes in the cold water of the Southern Ocean at Logan's Beach. And you want to arrive in the Barossa with plenty of time to savor one of the world's finest wine making regions. You don't want to rush. But you have a flight from Adelaide from Sydney that you have to catch in a few days and a rental car to return, so rush you do.

However, two days in the Barossa is better than no days in the Barossa. When we traveled there in 2005, Husband and I packed a lot into those two days, too: wine tastings at Penfold's and Peter Lehmann's cellar doors; a memorable meal at Vintners Bar & Grill; a visit to Maggie Beer's iconic restaurant and shop; a peaceful stay at a friendly bed and breakfast called the Blickinstal Barossa Valley Retreat that makes their own jam and provided the most entertaining dog-sheep-alpaca staredown I've ever experienced; a bowl of amazing chips at a shop in the town of Angaston, the best I've had which is saying a lot because I'm no stranger to chips.

(Blurry evidence of The Best Chips on Earth, with mayonnaise and chili sauce.)

Not that chips are necessarily a traditional part of it, but the Barossa has a rich food culture reaching back centuries thanks to Lutherans from Prussia and other parts of central and eastern Europe who settled in the valley seeking religious freedom. The tiny towns situated in the Barossa have a decidedly German -- yet completely Australian -- feel, with a food that is similarly evolved: German culinary tradition with a distinct Australian slant.

Take for example honey biscuits, a traditional cookie usually enjoyed in the Barossa at Christmastime. The honey biscuit's European counterpart would have included much more spice, more like gingerbread. But given the Barossa's remote location those early settlers would have had difficulty procuring a range of spices. So the biscuit evolved into something simpler, a treat that allows the honey flavor to come forward and only subtly hints at spice. How convenient, considering that the Barossa is home to many an apiary.

Though honey biscuits are a Christmas confection, I decided to make them today -- as spring in Ohio begins to make way for summer -- because they are included in the "Summer" chapter of my reference volume on the Barossa's culinary history, Barossa Food, by Angela Heuzenroeder. (Christmas falls during summertime down there on the other side of the earth.) These biscuits are delightful, soft and simple with a prominent honey flavor and occasional flecks of ground clove and cinnamon. And since they aren't part of my own traditional Christmas celebration, I don't regret making them at the beginning of May.

What I regret is spending only two days in the Barossa.

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HONEY BISCUITS

Adapted from Barossa Food, by Angela Heuzenroeder

The name of the game with honey biscuits is: soft. You want them to be soft. Don't be afraid of under baking them; in fact, there is a bakery in the Barossa town of Nuriootpa that deliberately under bakes them. You can cut them out with the cookie cutter of your choice (the photo in the book shows the biscuits in what appears to be the shape of birds and fish), and you can ice them, if you wish, with royal icing or with a softer powdered sugar icing. But the aforementioned bakery in Nuriootpa doesn't ice them, and cuts them in rectangles. And because I quite like Nuriootpa, that's what I did.

Note: this dough must chill overnight, so plan accordingly.

Another note: these are phenomenal with a cup of tea.

1 c. honey

1 c. sugar

1 T. unsalted butter

1/2 c. cold water

1 1/2 t. baking soda

1 large egg, well beaten

1 t. ground cloves

1 t. cinnamon

2 c. self-rising flour

About 3 1/2 c. all-purpose flour

Combine the honey, sugar and butter in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and stir over medium-low heat until the sugar is dissolved, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Add water and baking soda; whisk to combine. Transfer the mixture to a large bowl and let cool until lukewarm. The mixture will "separate" as it cools; make sure to whisk together again before proceeding to the next step.

When lukewarm, add the egg, cloves and cinnamon, and whisk to combine. Add the self-rising flour and 3 cups of the all-purpose flour. Stir with a wooden spoon, adding another 1/2 cup of all-purpose flour, if needed, to make a soft dough. Turn the dough out on the counter and knead to bring the mixture together into a homogeneous mass. Place the dough in a bowl, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

When you are ready to bake the biscuits, preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Divide the dough into quarters. Working with one quarter at a time, roll out the dough on a well-floured surface until it's about 1/4-inch thick. Using a bench scraper or a knife, trim the edges and cut into rectangles about 3 inches by 2 inches. Add more flour as necessary; this dough has a tendency to stick. You can re-roll the scraps.

Place the biscuits on a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake for 7 minutes -- no longer!

Let cool for a minute on the baking sheets, then transfer to wire racks to cool completely.

If your biscuits turn out crispy, the recipe states that you can store a piece of fresh bread with them "in the biscuit tin" to soften them within a day.

Makes about 8 1/2 dozen rectangular biscuits. Yield will vary based on the choice of cookie cutter.

I think you should make these

Does it ever happen to you that you see something, or someone mentions something, that you haven't seen or thought about in a very long time? And you think to yourself, with barely contained glee, oh yeah! That reminds me of my childhood! I remember that! It's like a memory that had gone completely dark long ago is again illuminated by the bright light of nostalgic recognition. So it is that songs, books, toys, food -- ahem, baked goods -- emerge from the recesses of your mind and take you back to very specific, and happy, times and places.

The other day Mom mentioned a delicate, thin, jam-filled cookie that she used to make all the time when I was little. I don't recall ever making them with her, but I do remember that they were a favorite in our house. Then one day she didn't make them anymore. I'm sure there wasn't a reason, they just were no longer a regular part of what came out of her kitchen. I forgot about them completely over the course of the past two decades. Indeed, they did not occur to me even recently, when I've been spending a lot of time and mental energy gathering favorite childhood recipes for this blog. They were just gone.

That was, until Mom started talking about them last week. It was like a cartoon light bulb appeared over my head, you know, with like five or six squiggly lines emanating from it. As she talked about these jam-filled cookies, I could picture them like no time had passed. I could see their pretty scalloped edges and almond-flecked dough dressed in the thinnest cloak of powdered sugar glaze. I could see the jam oozing out from the sandwiched centers. I could feel their crumbly sandy texture between my fingers. I'm pretty sure Mom could see and feel all this, too, because she went home, rifled through her recipe box, came back with the recipe card, handed it to me and said, "I think you should make these."

Hint, hint.

(This cookie is sticking out its tiny jam-tongue at you.)

The recipe comes from a dear friend, Diane Chase. The Chases lived across the street from us when I was growing up, and they were just the coolest family. Well, I suppose they still are the coolest family, but with five adult children and too many grandchildren to count, they are scattered all over the country and we don't get to see each other save family photos sent around at Christmastime. The recipe calls for "grated unblanched almonds," and since Mrs. Chase didn't yet have a Cuisinart when she originally shared this recipe with Mom, she would quite literally grate them, one by one, on a box grater. Now, I have two Cuisinarts and nearly a pound of almond meal in the freezer, but out of nostalgia and respect for those pre-food processor days I grated my almonds on a microplane when I made these cookies today. It's a little tedious, to be sure, but it's really not that bad. Gives you time to reflect while your grate nuts down to your knuckles. Gives you time to catch up on your TiVoed episodes of RuPaul's Drag Race.

Taste-wise, the almond grating is completely worth it. A few drags across the microplane transform a whole almond into a small pillowy heap of fluffy nut-shavings. The texture is very different from ground almond meal, which holds onto some of its crunch. Grated almonds, I have learned, sort of disappear into a pile of soft almond flavor. Which means they work perfectly in this simple cookie, fully imparting their almond essence while leaving the rest of the cookie to bake into a delicate round with no almond pieces to compromise the buttery flakiness. The depth of flavor is remarkable considering the few humble ingredients. You look at this cookie and you think, "Ah, nothing special." But then you taste it. And you savor its texture. Thank you, grated almonds.

I haven't had this flavor in my mouth for some 20 years. Yet it's like I was eating these cookies yesterday. Mom came over right away to have some.

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FABULOUS FILLED COOKIES

This buttery dough needs a night in the refrigerator, so be sure to start these cookies the day before you wish to serve them.

Use your very favorite jam to fill these cookies. Mrs. Chase and Mom used currant. My very favorite is strawberry, from Greaves in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario.

1 c. grated unblanched almonds

1 lb. unsalted butter, at room temperature

8 oz. superfine sugar

2 1/2 c. all-purpose flour, sifted

1/4 t. vanilla

1/8 t. kosher salt

About 1 c. jam or preserves

1 c. powdered sugar

2 T. water

Grate the almonds using a microplane or the fine side of a box grater. Alternatively, you can chop them finely in a food processor or use almond meal, but the texture of the finished cookie will be different.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar. Add the flour gradually and mix very well. Add the nuts, vanilla and salt and mix again to combine. Cover the bowl with a piece of wax paper and a tea towel and refrigerate overnight.

Preheat the oven to 250 degrees Fahrenheit.

Work only with handfuls of dough at a time. Warm the handful of dough between your hands. On a very well-floured surface, roll out the dough until it's about 1/8-inch thick. Cut using a 2-inch round cookie cutter. I use the same cutter Mom used, which has a lovely scalloped edge.

Place cookies on an ungreased baking sheet. Bake for 25 minutes (the cookies should not take on any color). Cool on the baking sheet for about 5 minutes, then remove to a wire rack to cool completely.

Mix together the powdered sugar and water to make a simple glaze. Place about 1/2 t. of jam on half of the cookies, then sandwich together with the other half. Drizzle the tops of the cookies with the glaze. Then, savor.

Makes about 36 little reminders of childhood.