If you give a kid a cookie

Have you ever watched a kid eat a cookie? First, they take a little nibble, but since the arc of the cookie's diameter and the arc of their mouth work in opposition, the little corners of the bite out of the cookie break off and scatter down the front of their shirt. (Note: they stick better to sweaters, the fuzzier, the better.) The next bite is where life experience makes all the difference: an adult would turn the cookie and go for one of the protruding points. Not the kid. They pick up where they left off, jamming the cookie farther in, which means lots more crumbs (and even more if the cookie is gluten-free). If it’s a chocolate chip cookie, this is where the first smudge of chocolate on the side of their mouth comes from. (An aside: they apply the same methodology to watermelon, which explains how they get so incredibly sticky.) A really young child will continue in this way until the cookie snaps in two and they have to scramble for the crumbs, or cry because their cookie broke.

This only applies to homemade cookies, since they’re “more better than store cookies,” a direct quote from my Little One. His classmate today declared that “store soup” wasn’t nearly as good as “home soup” but she was going to eat it anyway ‘cause she was hungry. I hope her dad has some time to make “home cookies” today like Little One’s mom did. There’s just nothing more better than a homemade, crumbly, chocolately smile.

Gluten-Free Chocolate Chip Cookies

Cream together:
½ cup butter or shortening
¼ cup granulated sugar
¾ cup brown sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 egg (or use egg replacer)

Add gradually:
1½ cups GF flour (I use rice/starch based)
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon xanthan gum

That’s the basic cookie. Now you can add the stuff that makes it interesting, like 1 cup of chocolate chips, or coated chocolate candies, or toffee bits, or nuts, or…?

Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 12 minutes or until golden. Do not overbake. Makes about 4 dozen 3” cookies.

Comfortable food

Thursday is my knitting day, and last Thursday, I was knitting, albeit at a cruising altitude of 37,000 feet. What was missing was the camaraderie of the knitting bunch, which had scattered to the four winds, myself included. I was on a plane, circling interminably over a snowy Maryland and very glad that I had brought my drawstring knitting bag and an extra ball of yarn.

I couldn’t spend the whole time knitting, though, since five hours is a long time to do any one thing, so I delved into Michael Pollan’s latest opus. I was reading while we passed over the nation’s breadbasket, a patchwork quilt all in white this January. Each square of this quilt has a group of greyish blocks placed somewhere on it, reminding me that people live there, presumably people who grow our food. Or, rather, people who grow the raw materials for corporate food production. I am struck by how all the fields look the same, unlike the farms in Europe, where odd shapes and sizes echo the natural landscape and the diverse plantings. But the Dakotas, where my Grammie once homesteaded, are no longer the breadbasket; they are the corn syrup in my aisle mate’s Coke and the soy oil in his peanut-free snack.

I can’t complain about airline food, for I had chosen not to partake of the “breakfast skillets” and “picnic packets” they were selling for $5. I couldn’t fit all the leaves from the head of Rent’s Due Ranch lettuce in the bowl the night before my departure (have you noticed that the lettuce heads are getting bigger as the days grow longer?), so I grabbed a plastic container (I still have a few) and put the rest in there. It was joined by two delicately thin-skinned tomatoes and some sliced almonds. I had tucked a little packet of Annie’s salad dressing in my TSA-approved Ziploc baggie, and so I crunched away in seat 21A, satisfied by my choice, and appalled and smug by what I saw people buying. And I had chocolate for dessert.

The sun set on my shortened day while we circled, but I had plenty of time after figuring out the Metro system and checking in to meander the aisles of the Whole Foods across the street. I was surprised by the wave of relief I felt as I entered with my reusable shopping bag tucked under my arm (it had fit nicely in the outside pocket of the new carryon bag). It seemed wonderfully comforting to know I had access to real food after a long day as a road warrior.

This week, I am back home again, and the selfsame drawstring bag is next to the door, ready to go knitting again. Back in my comfort zone.