To celebrate the holidays, I have escaped the crushing convenience of Indianapolis and retreated to my parents house in Michigan. They live in a log cabin on a lake in the middle of the woods that is almost laughably picturesque 
and peaceful, especially at this time of year. The fire is always burning, the countertop is piled deep with calorie-rich goodies from the amish market on the other side of the lake, the internet functions at a reassuringly frustrating snail-like pace, and the most important question of any given day is the ever-present “What’s for dinner?” My newly-retired parents live life at a slower pace than they used to. Driving to the nearest grocery store takes about 25 minutes, and driving to the mall takes an hour. They spend their days pursuing hobbies like bird-watching, quilting, monitoring the status of a cat that happens to walk by their deck once a week, and, of course, cooking and baking.
The holidays are a time for revisiting old family recipes that we have made for many years, and I always find myself amused by the stories and quirks surrounding these classics. After arriving yesterday, I was quickly put to work making “string cookies,” a chocolatey coconut cookie that is a favorite of my Dad. I found myself, like many home bakers at this time of year, turning to cards that look like this:
Deciphering these hand-written cards is part of the nostalgic fun, as is interpreting some of the rather inexact directions cheerfully offered by my relatives. To make the string cookies, I turned to the card closest to the bottom in the picture above, beautifully scribbled by my glamorous Aunt Annie many years ago. Please note that there is no list of ingredients… one just stumbles through this one line by line.
I set about melting chocolate with a “hunk of butter,” (not sure what measurement system that is, Aunt Annie,) but had to pause and consult with my mom when I couldn’t determine if the scribbled unit offered in the middle of the direction “melt 2 blank of chocolate” read “sq” for squares, or “oz” for ounces. After some consideration, I just added half the bar and called it a win. Butter and chocolate was going to taste good no
matter what. I added condensed milk, a splash of vanilla, dried sweetened coconut, and chopped pecans. I then dropped them by the spoonful on a cookie sheet, realized I was supposed to grease the cookie sheet, dumped the mixture back in the bowl, greased the cookie sheet, and dropped them by the spoonful on the cookie sheet again. I baked them for eight minutes until the coconut was starting to brown and they looked like a yummy heart attack, removed them to a rack, and called my dad to sample them. While he munched, he told me the story that he tells every year about these particular cookies.
My paternal grandfather was a notorious practical jokester, enthusiastic eater, and a jolly presence at every family gathering. His appreciation for home-cooked food was unparalleled. Frequently, someone would notice that he had a crumb on his front at the end of a meal and point it out him, asking “Pop, what did you get on your shirt?” He would calmly pluck the offending morsel from his shirtfront, pop it in his mouth, and solemnly declare, “I don’t know.”
Papa loved string cookies, and one year in the seventies, my grandmother made them for him for April Fool’s Day. She put toothpicks in them, disguised by the strands of coconut and chocolate. She expected him to take a bite of one, realize they were there, and have a good laugh. However, he stumbled upon them in the kitchen while unsupervised, and devoured three of them before she discovered him. It’s hard to say how many toothpicks he ate, but he lived another forty years, so I suppose it is safe to say he escaped unscathed.
Tomorrow: my mom’s three day masterpiece and my favorite food in the world: Christmas Coffee Cake.
