Cutout Cookies, a Valentine's Tradition

There's a small, oak table in my kitchen. It's round and only seats four without additional leaves. It has carved legs and drop leaves on either side. One of these drop leaves is warped slightly upward, a sign of passing time and use. It makes this satisfying click when you pull up the leaf, as the metal locking mechanism slides into place. My kids sit at it to eat breakfast, or do school-work or watch me cook. 

But it used to be my great-grandparent's table. My mother's mother's mother used to have it in her kitchen, where she fed family and guests. A life lived around it. She died of Alzheimer's when I was young, a disease that ripped away her dignity and function. And the table became my mother's. 

Chocolate Pie

I'm not sure when my love of chocolate began. Perhaps it was when I began stealthily sneaking chocolate chips from the cupboard. Or maybe when my mom made chocolate pudding and we'd eat it hot out of the pot, burning our tongues, both unable to wait for it to cool. Or maybe it began when she made chocolate fudge and we'd scrape the leftovers from the pot with a tablespoon. But most certainly chocolate pie had something to do with my love of chocolate. 

It's a pie that my mom has made my whole life, a recipe her mother-in-law gave her. A homemade crust lining a glass pie plate, is poked with a fork and baked until just beginning to turn golden. The filling, a rich chocolate pudding is whipped up on the stove, turning thick as the cornstarch does its work. Later, some cream is whipped before the whole thing is assembled. Pudding into crust. Whipped cream atop the pudding. It's a beautiful medley of crunch, richness and sweetness. And the perfect dessert for the chocolate lover.

How-To: Pie Crust

I've been watching my mom make pie crust ever since I was a little girl. Cutting the fat into the flour, adding ice cold water, stirring with a fork. I would sit at the island and watch the rhythm of her arms rolling out the dough, always from the center outward. She transformed it from a squat disk into a beautiful sheet of thin pastry. It's an art that is best learned by watching and doing together, an old hand guiding yours as you learn the feel of the dough. My mom learned from her mother-in-law, my Grammy, who has made countless pies in her century of life. My mom taught my sister, who then taught me on a weekend of sister fun. 

Jack helps me sometimes, measuring flour or stirring the fork. Someday Emma will help too. Passing on the family tradition, over a century old. 

Hot Cocoa for Two

Snow drifts softly down from the heavens, alighting itself on the frozen ground, building up into a blanket of white that covers all the unattractive brown. It fills my home with a gentle, white light. All is quiet outside. None but a few brave souls are willing to venture out and for a moment peace and calm reign on a busy street in the city. 

My firstborn is upstairs getting a bath. I can hear his little baby talk and squeals of laughter when the water splashes up into his sweet face. My second child is snug as a bug in my belly, not inclined at all to come and join us in this beautiful world. 

It's a good moment to sit and watch the weather float by, a mug of homemade hot chocolate steaming my face, a little peace before our world is overturned by the coming of a little baby girl.  

Ribbon Salad

My mom, a young married woman with no children yet, sat guiltily in her seat at her in-law's kitchen table. It was lunch time and leftovers from the night before were being pulled out of the fridge for the noonday meal.

Her mother-in-law's voice rung out from the depths of the fridge in a distinct Maine accent, "Well, I was sure I put a whole ribbon salad away last night, but here there are two pieces missing!" 

My mom looked down at her plate and busied herself with the silverware as her sisters-in-law began trying to pinpoint the guilty party.

Peanut Butter Fudge

Some things just never seem to change, especially at Christmastime. Traditions passed down and revisited, season after season. Childhood memories turning into adult ones, as you teach your own children about the things you treasure.

Going to my grandparents in Maine for Christmas was rich in these traditions. The Fraser fir, wired to the wall and decorated with old glass balls, colored lights, and homemade ornaments bearing grandchildren's faces beaming among the branches. The vintage, light-up star, slightly battered, but cheerfully gracing the top of the tree. 

Jam Thumbprints

These cookies always remind me of my sister. She doesn't have much of a sweet tooth (I must have gotten the bulk of that gene) and doesn't care a whole lot for most cakes and cookies. But she loves these jam thumbprints, so called for the indentation you make with your thumb to create a spot for a bit of jam. She makes them every year at Christmas. 

They are dense little cookies, almost like shortbread, encrusted with chopped pecans and ornamented with a lovely spot of bright, red jam. The cookie itself isn't terribly sweet, but the jam gives it that little punch of sugar that balances everything out. 

Molasses Crinkles

There's nothing better than getting something in the mail from someone you love. Whether it's a letter, flowers to cheer a dreary day or a homemade treat when you're far away, it's nice to be remembered. 

This seemed to be especially true when I was in college. Package notifications always brought out expectant smiles and quickened my pace to the student center. 

Christmas: Caramel Corn

Sometimes it's those little things that tell you that it's Christmas. Like hanging garland across the window, or setting the wise men on the hearth, or suspending the wax-faced angel on top of the freshly cut pine. Those things that bring flashes of memory and steal satisfyingly across your soul, whispering, "Christmas is here."

Soft and Chewy Gingerbread Men

What says Christmas better than a cheery little gingerbread man? Be-deckled with edible jewels and painted with a benign, frosting smile; he bades any passers-by to stop and nibble at his tender, spicy flesh. The perfect gingerbread man should be soft and chewy, his appendages slowly drooping as you hold him across your palm. No crispy, crunchy, cardboard gingerbread men here. Those over-baked samples belong on the Christmas tree, not in the mouth.

Chocolate-Peppermint Sandwiches

Christmas will soon be here! This being my last week teaching piano lessons for the year, I decided to bake cookies for all 25 of my students. I settled on Gingerbread Men and Chocolate-Peppermint Sandwiches, two new recipes. I stocked up on flour, sugar, butter and eggs, bought plastic goodie bags decorated with grinning gingerbread men and got up early to start baking before breakfast.