Brown Sugar Topped Squares: or, I would have written this down too

You never know what will turn up in boxes that no one has ever opened.

Brown Sugar Topped Squares         First layer: ½ cup butter (or ¼ cup each of butter and shortening) 1 cup dark brown sugar 1 egg 1 egg yolk (save white for topping) 1 tsp vanilla 1½ cups sifted flour ½ tsp baking powder ½ tsp salt         Topping: 1 egg white 1 cup dark brown sugar Heat oven to 325°. Grease a 10"x15" jelly roll pan. For extra insurance, cut a piece of baking paper to fit the bottom of the pan before greasing it. Afterward, press the paper firmly into place, eliminating as many bubbles as possible. Then coat the top of the paper with cooking spray. Cream the butter and sugar. Then beat in the egg, the yolk, and the vanilla. Beat well. Then sift in the flour, baking powder, and salt. Mix everything together. Place into the pan and spread to the edges. This is easier if you coat the top of the dough with cooking spray and then pat it out. (You may need to re-spray it a few times if it sticks to your hands.) Set aside. In a clean bowl with clean beaters, beat the egg white until it forms stiff peaks. Gradually add the sugar, then beat well. Pour this onto the dough and spread it to cover. Bake about 30 minutes. Cut into squares or bars while warm. Source: handwritten note

I was recently dog-sitting for my parents. It's like getting to briefly enjoy the fun parts of dog ownership without the whole "lifetime commitment of responsibility" thing. A few days before I arrived, my mother said that when she was going through some boxes that have followed us through multiple moves, she found a whole binder of recipes in my great-grandmother's handwriting. She left it out for me to look through. The binder rings were long broken away, and the pages were so brittle that they shed little pieces of themselves no matter how carefully I turned them.

This comes from the same great-grandmother whose graham cracker cake literally fell into our hands on a paper scrap. At the time, I was surprised to get a single recipe from a relative I never met. An entire binder of them was more than I ever thought possible. She even put a table of contents at the front of it. Of course, by the time the book turned up, the pages were out of order and randomly stuffed in there. 

Her handwriting was this good. A few decades later, my teachers demanded typed drafts of my essays because they couldn't read them otherwise.

She had a mix of newspaper clippings, glued-down food labels, and handwritten recipes-- some of which are attributed to people I'm pretty sure are relatives. The handwritten ones are surprisingly detailed and easy to understand. You don't always find that in personal recipe books. (I only put in that kind of effort when I'm giving a recipe to someone else.) This binder looks less like someone's personal notes and more like it was meant to be found and used by somebody else. Then again, she was a teacher with terrifying stare, and also organized enough to put a table of contents at the front.

If we carefully flip through the pages, we find multiple recipes for prune whip. Maybe she liked prune whip the same way I like brownies, and had different ones for different occasions. Perhaps one prune whip is the fastest but not the best, another one uses better spices but is a bit fussy to put together, another one has the perfect texture but also takes a while to make... etc.

Not going to lie, a salad with hot dogs on top is probably amazing.

Looking elsewhere through the book, most of the recipes are for desserts. This kind of surprised me, because the surviving photographs of the lady herself show someone who looked too grim to ever permit frivolous sweets, much less make them. In pictures, she almost always looks ready to frighten the disobedience right out of you unless she's with her husband, in which case she just looks tired. 

But despite appearances, she may have liked sweets a lot. We found a lot of various personal effects organized in old chocolate boxes when we cleared out the house. There were a lot of chocolate boxes. Some of them were double-decker sized.

 Getting back to the book, the recipe for "pineapple dessert" involves mixing marshmallows into canned pineapple and letting them dissolve overnight. A decade or two later, the instructions would probably end with a note like "reduce marshmallows to serve as a salad." Now, I always thought of these people as the relatives from Chicago.  For some reason it never occurred to me that if they lived in Chicago, they were therefore midwestern--- marshmallow dessert/salads and all. I sent this page to a friend who lives in Michigan, who said "I've made that pineapple dessert!" I was further informed "It's pretty good!"

The instructions for the "lemon sponge" on the same page suggest that apparently she made it a lot. She wrote down the original ingredients, and then rewrote them in quantities to feed like fifty.

Other recipes of note include two recipes for "Irish moss blancmange." At first, I thought "Irish moss" was meant to be a poetic, evocative title. Like, no one today thinks "dirt cake" contains actual dirt. But both of the Irish moss blancmanges start by literally boiling Irish moss. I thought this seemed weird until I learned that "Irish moss" is what we now call carrageenan, which is still used the same way today. Anyway, I'm not sure if this recipe was some sort of Irish pride thing, or perhaps a vegetarian option for serving gelatin during Lent. (They were very Catholic.)

Naturally, I couldn't resist making something as soon as I finished looking through the book. What good is my parents' counterspace if I don't cover it in splatters while I'm here? I zeroed in on this recipe because I love brown sugar in all its exquisite forms. As I read the instructions, I wondered if this would be like a molasses-tinged variant of the Blitz Forte. After all, both of them are cookie dough baked under a meringue.

I love the change in handwriting halfway down the page, suggesting that she let one of her kids carefully copy a recipe off the back of the Quaker Oats can into "the big recipe book."

You may notice that I used light brown sugar even though the recipe specifies to use dark. As much as I like making recipes exactly as written, there was no dark brown sugar at hand. I could have gone out to the grocery store, but the weather was cold, wet, and miserable. I would have poured in a little bit of molasses to make up for what we lacked, but there wasn't any in the kitchen. (Really, I think every kitchen should have molasses in case of a brown sugar emergency.)

Our dough soon looked like we were making blondies. Even though our ingredients didn't quite match what was written, we could at least see that the recipe worked. Also, the dough tasted so good that I regretted preheating the oven.

After mixing, we are directed to spread the dough "thinly" onto a 10"x15" jelly roll pan. I don't have one of those, but a little bit of math told me that a pair of 9" square pans are about the same total size. As you can see, two 9" squares are only a smidge bigger than the pan we're supposed to use.

I have never used calculus, but I have to admit that all of the math classes from 8th grade and earlier have been very useful in my daily life.

I didn't think an 8% pan size difference would matter until I saw how tiny the dough looked.

This is not a recipe where you can eat a lot of the dough. I had to completely clean the bowl with a rubber spatula. And when that wasn't enough, I had to scrape the very last spoonful of it from the beaters. Even then, I barely coaxed it to the edges.

After that the dough was pressed as thin as it would get, I cracked our single egg white into the bowl and thought "This is supposed to cover all of it?"

Things looked more promising after I whipped the egg white to a voluminous froth, but I still had my doubts. Even if I had my great-grandmother's correctly-sized pans, this lone egg white would have to cover 150 square inches of dough. (That's 968cm² for our metric friends.)

Although brown sugar meringues are pretty common, this is my first time making one. You'd think I would have made one sooner just because people call them "seafoams," which I think sounds charming. But even though I liked the idea of a brown sugar seafoam and was excited to make one, I didn't think the recipe we had written in front of us would end well. I've found that a cloud of whipped egg whites can only take so much sugar before collapsing into a goop. Which this did.

Granted, our topping was slightly more whipped than before I put the egg white into the mixer, but not by much. Also, it was easy to smear this runny mess on top of the rest of the recipe. I didn't manage to completely cover our cookie dough, but that didn't bother me. As we all know, whoever trims off the ugly edges after baking gets to eat them.

To my surprise, the cookie dough managed to puff up a lot. But since the dough had started out looking like either crackers or pie crust, it was still quite thin after baking. I wondered why my great-grandmother didn't use a smaller pan than this. Maybe she needed to stretch the kitchen budget as thin as the dough in the pans. Or she might not have wanted the cookies to be too indulgent. Or perhaps it was laziness: "There! That'll do the kids' lunches all week!"

I may have baked these slightly too long. Even though I followed the instruction to cut them while warm, I had to use a lot of force. Also, that top layer was unexpectedly fragile. It crumbled to powder wherever the metal spatula went. (It was easier to chisel straight down with a spatula than to use a knife.)

These were like brownies only a lot more so. The bottom layer was wonderfully dense and chewy. The top layer started off powdery and then melted in your mouth. It was like that crackly layer on top of brownies but a lot more so. I hesitate to say the top layer was like candy coating or frosting, but it definitely suggested both.

But as much as I liked these, they would have been better with dark brown sugar. I wish I had added cinnamon to the bottom layer to make up for the loss. However, I didn't tip these into the trash. Instead, I put them onto the pretty glass cake plate for when my parents returned. For one thing, my mother really likes it but doesn't use it very often. Also, this cake plate is relatively small, which meant we had to stack the cookies into a tall pile on it. This helped them look less thin.

I will definitely revisit this recipe with the dark brown sugar that is specified, but it was still good with what we had on hand. I'm also pretty sure that reducing the pan size to 9"x13" won't hurt a thing. Besides, I think more of us have 9"x13" pans in the house than jelly roll pans.

Minnie's Pizzelles: They're ever-so-light!

I don't know who Minnie is, but she is famous for her pizzelles.

Minnie's Pizzelles By Barbara D’Addario, whose mother is famous for her pizzelle. 4 tbsp margarine 3½ tbsp sugar 3 eggs 1½ tsp anise extract 1 cup flour Cream together margarine and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time. (Mixture will become very runny.) Add anise with one of the eggs. Beat mixture vigorously. Add flour gradually, continuing to beat vigorously, until there are no lumps. The mixture should ribbon when dropped from a spoon back into the bowl, like pancake batter. Bake on a hot pizzelle iron until golden. Source: Fante's Kitchen via The Internet Archive

After Thanksgiving, I told myself that I would eat mostly vegetables to compensate for the feast. I then spent the next week microwaving the leftover carbs that I was sent home with. Sometimes it's nice to just put my feet up and let microwave make dinner for a while-- especially when said dinner is macaroni and cheese with a side of cornbread. But eventually, the urge to play with my kitchen toys struck again.

They've been dormant for so long!

Fante's website tells us that this recipe comes from someone who "is famous for her pizzelle." We appreciate that she let the world have the recipe (or at least, shared it with the people who find Fante's pizzelle page). A lot of people are so possessive of their kitchen files. 

Right away, Minnie's pizzelle recipe is different from every other I've made. Admittedly, I've only made a handful of them. Instead of melting (and cooling) the butter and then whipping the eggs, the directions sound like we're making a cake. "Cream the butter and sugar, add eggs one at a time..." Of course, I reduced the recipe amounts to one egg. But the tiny piles of ingredients made me wonder if perhaps I cut down the recipe too much.

I creamed the butter and sugar as directed. I know we only have a few small clumps of ingredients splattered onto the sides of the bowl, but you can take my word that they are well-mixed and properly fluffed up.

Minnie's recipe uses anise extract, which meant I had an excuse to get out the bottle of it that I bought ages ago and never found any suitable recipes for. Unfortunately, I was so excited to use the anise extract that I missed the measuring spoon and poured a huge puddle of it right into the bowl. The batter tasted foul-- and this is coming from someone who likes black licorice. But I figured that even if the pizzelles tasted horrible, I could imagine away the excess extract and see how much I like the recipe itself. 

When I beat in the egg, everything turned into a watery mess. At this point, I put down the paper I had written the recipe on and went back to the source. I really wanted to find a mistake that could explain the almost certain failure that was sloshing around in the mixing bowl. First, I double-checked the recipe amounts. Then I redid my math from reducing everything to a third. But no matter how many times I recalculated, I got the same numbers. So if the recipe is wrong, it's because of a mistype on the website.

Upon returning to the mixing bowl after our short interlude with a calculator, the butter flecks had all floated to the top of the watery mess. It looked like one of those sponge puddings that separate into layers while baking. But even though this watery mess looked like no pizzelle or cake recipe I have ever made, I reminded myself that Minnie is famous for her pizzelles and I am not. (However, I am now slightly noted among my Italian friends' parents for being too daffy to use an electric iron.)

I sifted in the flour and hoped that the resulting batter would "ribbon" as the instructions claimed. I would even have accepted a batter that was slightly too runny to form ribbons. After all, Minnie didn't foresee the pandemic-induced crisis of butter moisture. 

My faith in both Minnie's recipe was restored by the time I set down the whisk. The finished mixture formed ribbons when you dripped it off the spoon, just like the recipe said. It had the texture of really good pancake batter.

We were theoretically ready to cook our pizzelles. However, a lot of pizzelle guides (including Fante's, from whence this recipe comes) advise that you should only use batter-like recipes on electric irons. For stovetop irons, you should add enough extra flour to turn the batter into a dough. In other words, making this recipe on top of the stove was ill-advised.

As the iron heated up, I tried to convince myself that a hot iron is a hot iron, whether it sits on a burner or on the countertop. I didn't believe my own lies, but then I told myself that I am allowed some culinary stupidity since I have no Italian relatives to show me how it's done. And so, I brushed the iron with melted shortening, spooned batter on it, and clamped it shut. I was afraid the batter would overflow the iron and drip down the sides, but it somehow didn't.

Now, waffle irons always emit steam when you put batter in them. But Minnie's pizzelles made a lot more than any other waffle iron recipe I've ever used. Our pizzelle iron turned into a squeaky steam whistle.

As the pizzelles cooked, all of the excessive anise extract boiled out from inside the iron. The kitchen soon smelled like suspiciously like cheap cough syrup. The foul odor ruined our happy pizzelle-making experience, and would hover in the house for a few days. But as the anise-loaded steam shot out of the iron like I had added jet nozzles, I began to hope that our pizzelles would taste nice instead of bitter. These thoughts soon led to wondering if there's any point to adding extract at all. Does it all get cooked out?

I should also note that while I was making these, I had some towels in the dryer which is in the kitchen. The next time I dried my face after showering, I got a big noseful of anise.

Back to the recipe, we only got five pizzelles out of the batter. Granted, I cut the ingredients down to one-sixth. But all five of our pizzelles were really pretty. And they fell right out of the iron without even trying to stick.

I've noted this before (often), but I remain amazed at how much better shortening is on waffle irons than cooking spray. This wispy translucent thing, and all the others like it, slid right off without ripping.

 Minnie's pizzelles were ever-so light and crisp. They reminded me a lot of rice crackers, to the point that I want to try swapping in rice flour just to see what happens. I think these would be really good in the summertime with whipped cream and fresh fruit on top. At the opposite end of the year, these would be a perfect light finish after a heavy holiday dinner that is 90% butter. 

They'd also be really amazing if you rolled them into tubes and squirted cannoli filling into them. I think cannolis are traditionally fried (but don't quote me on that), but Minnie's pizzelles seem perfect for it.

In other words, I can see why Minnie is famous for her pizzelles. I'm not throwing out the paper I wrote her recipe on.

Hot Mustard Fruit: Better than I thought!

As the sun rises on Thanksgiving Day, squirting mustard onto fruit seems like a perfect metaphor for the upcoming four years.

Hot Mustard Fruit ¼ cup butter, melted ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar 2 tbsp prepared mustard* 1 16-oz can sliced peaches, drained 1 13½-oz can pineapple chunks, drained 2 large bananas, cut into chunks Heat oven to 325°. Grease a 6-cup casserole. (A loaf pan will do in a pinch.) Mix together butter, sugar, and mustard in a large bowl. Take out ¼ cup of this and set aside. Stir the fruit into remaining mixture. Place into the casserole. Spoon reserved topping over it. Bake 40 minutes. Serve warm. *ie, the stuff you squirt onto sandwiches (as opposed to dry mustard powder). Mrs. J. R. Burrier; Nicholasville, Kentucky; Favorite Recipes of America: Desserts; 1968

Favorite Recipes of America: Desserts, 1967

This recipe has been staring at me for a long time. Even when I haven't opened the cookbook in ages, I know that the hot mustard fruit lurks within. But I was always afraid to go for it. I have asked several friends to go on the hot mustard journey with me (who wants to do such things alone?), but everyone always muttered awkward excuses or mysteriously forgot. 

Eventually, I shared the hot mustard fruit with a recipe swap group I'm in and asked if anyone wanted to have a virtual hot mustard fruit party. By "virtual party" I meant that whoever had the courage could make it and share a few pictures and (probably well-censored) opinions. Many people said it sounded fun. But for whatever reason, no one has shared their hot mustard as of this writing.

Getting to the recipe, Mrs. J. R. Burrier wastes no time getting to our featured ingredient. And she really puts the "mustard" into "hot mustard fruit." Look at the size of that mustard blob! It looks like I let an unsupervised five-year-old use a squeeze bottle.

Our resulting mixture tasted like the beginnings of some really good barbecue sauce. I wasn't prepared to think this was any good.

Those lumps are there because I decided to throw in all of the rock-hard clumps in the brown sugar and hope they dissolved.

I have to give Mrs. Burrier credit. This recipe comes together really fast. After melting our butter and squirting mustard on it, we merely need to open some cans and cut up a banana. I was ready to stir and bake until I saw that I had purchased something more revolting than mustard-loaded fruit.

It turns out that canned peaches and canned oranges have insidiously similar labels. It's hard to tell one picture of orange semicircular wedges from another when you're already telling yourself this could be your last chance to experience consequence-free folly before grocery prices have another pandemic. 

You may think I would simply use the oranges instead of peaches. But I truly detest canned oranges. At best, they are those weird sticky things that I pluck out of the fried rice when I make the mistake of paying for Panda Express. 

I didn't even want to repurpose them. Yes, I could come up with some lovely recipes that would make the canned orange segments semi-edible. But anything I made to salvage the canned oranges would be better if I omitted them. And so, I decided to reluctantly accept that my stupidity cost me $1.49 and thank the oranges for teaching me to carefully scrutinize canned fruit. (I apologize to anyone who likes canned oranges. Before you get too offended that I hate them, keep in mind that I also think cranberry sauce is better with chopped celery in it.)

And so, I went back to the grocery store for canned peaches. As much as I thought this recipe was nuts, I wanted to give it a fair chance by using the ingredients Mrs. Burrier wrote down. In the canned food aisle, I carefully read the labels and made sure I got the correct fruit in the correct-sized can. Instead of saying "How are you," the clerk asked "Are you sure this is all you forgot?" I said yes, I was quite sure. Yes, I had already planned and bought for all of this year's Thanksgiving baking. Yes, I was certain I wasn't forgetting anything else. Yes, I had double-checked. Based on the cashier's concerned face and determined questioning, a lot of people had boomeranged in and out of the store in a horrible panic.

Back at the house, I had already dumped the pineapple into the mustard mixture before realizing I had purchased canned oranges. Before going out for peaches, I put the mustard masterpiece-in-progress in the refrigerator. I know that both sugar and mustard are famously antimicrobial, but a little bit of food refrigeration never hurt anyone. When I returned, the pineapple chunks had taken on an unnerving resemblance to cut-up chicken soaking in a particularly pungent marinade.

If we pretend I didn't need to go to the grocery store twice, this recipe is really quick to make. Only a few minutes after melting the butter, we were finished mixing it together.

I think the banana is the only healthy thing in the recipe.

Now, Mrs. Burrier says to use a 1-quart casserole pan. Since I cut the recipe in half, I got out the smallest baking dish in the cabinets. Aside from today's recipe, I only use it when slipping a single-serving dinner into the oven next to something larger. 

Purely out of curiosity, I flipped the dish over to see if they stamped its size underneath. They did, and this is a one-quart casserole just like Mrs. Burrier wanted. I only say this because I cut the recipe in half. Had I used Mrs. Burrier's original amounts, we would be putting twice this much mustard fruit into a casserole of exactly this size. I think that would boil over, don't you?

And so, we only needed to spoon our reserved topping over the rest of the fruit and bake. Until tonight, drizzling caramel has always made things look even better than before. But today, it made the fruit look like it followed me under the car the last time I changed the oil.

40 minutes later, our hot mustard fruit was ready to serve. If you ignored your nose, it actually looked pretty good. I would have put some sort of crumble topping on it, but Mrs. Burrier didn't think it was necessary. Maybe she didn't want to distract anyone from the delicious flavor of mustard.

For those who can't get enough mustard in their fruit, there were a lot of pan juices ready to spoon over your portion. I think a bowl would be better than a plate for serving this. But I didn't realize that until it was too late.

This was a lot better than I expected. I think the fruit definitely benefited from the protracted baking time. It gave the vinegar in the mustard plenty of time to boil away. It's like dipping fruit in honey-mustard sauce, only a lot richer. With great surprise, I'm going to say this is actually pretty good. The mustard adds a bit of complexity that makes this just a bit better than an assemblage of canned fruit would normally be. Heck, if you have the ingredients for this, why not slap it together really quick and jam it next to the Thanksgiving turkey? 

In closing, it's definitely weird, but it's not bad.

Second-Stab Saturday: New England Cinnamon Drops (they are now raisin-free!)

Today, we are revisiting a recipe that had so much potential but came out so bland.

New England Cinnamon Drops 1 cup sugar ¼ cup shortening ¼ cup butter 1 tsp baking soda ½ tsp salt 1 tsp baking powder 1 egg 1½ tsp vanilla ½ tsp almond extract 1 cup thick sour milk, or buttermilk (I used sour cream) 3 cups flour Cinnamon-sugar for sprinkling Heat oven to 375°. Grease a cookie sheet. Cream the sugar, butter, shortening, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Add the egg and extracts. When thoroughly mixed, add the sour cream and beat well. Then mix in the flour. Drop by the teaspoon onto baking sheets. Then sprinkle the cookies with cinnamon sugar. If desired, pat them into a neater shape after sprinkling (the cinnamon-sugar will keep them from sticking to your fingertips). Bake 10-12 minutes, or until golden on the bottom. Bertha Lyman Shellington, 3 West Park Avenue, Haddonfield, NJ; Philadelphia Inquirer Recipe Exchange, June 21 1935, page 12

Some readers may recall when we made the New England Raisin Drops. At the time, we asked "Would it have killed Bertha Lyman Shellington to add some damn vanilla?" Well today, we are flavoring the cookies with the fermented seed pods of a vining orchid that only grows in the beautiful tropics! That is, we are adding some damn vanilla. And also a little almond extract because I felt like it.

You can see the the vanilla right where it should be: in the mixing bowl instead of on the shelf.

Our cookie dough was a lot floppier than last time. Our previous New England Raisin Drops were firm enough to shape with the hands. But today's dough was too sticky for anything but spoon-dropping. Well, they are called New England Raisin drops, so I can't be mad when they acted like their name. Anyway, Bertha Lyman Shellington spoon-dropped her cookies, and she won the $2 basket of groceries.

I didn't know if today's softer dough would spread and flatten in the oven, or if the cookies would retain their shape like the last ones did. After sprinkling on the cinnamon sugar, I patted away the pointier protrusions just in case. I'm glad I did, because these cookies spread a little but not much. Also, they puffed up a lot. I could easily have made them smaller.

And of course, I will grab any excuse to play with the cookie press. For this recipe, I resisted the temptation to use every stencil in the box. I am already learning that the star is the most reliable stencil in the box. It's not the fanciest one, but the other shapes can bake into sad-looking blobs if your cookies are in a bad mood.

Our cinnamon stars looked ever-so-cute. However, I don't know whether I recommend using a cookie press for this recipe or not.

If you own a cookie press and want to try these for yourself, you should know that they did not come off the ungreased pan without a fight.

It's been a surprisingly long time since I had to scour a baking sheet.

Adding flavorings to the dough did wonders for the cookies. When I let everyone try these, one person said "These are dangerous!" and left the kitchen with two in each hand.

The cookies vanished rapidly when I wasn't looking. (Of course, I contributed to their disappearance too.) The spoon-dropped ones are what muffin tops wish they could be. They're almost like little snickerdoodle cakes. That generous splash of vanilla did wonders for them. And so did de-raisining the recipe.

Brown Sugar Spritz Cookies: or, Buying a press to go with the instructions

I didn't want to wait for our cookie press to break before getting a better one.

Brown Sugar Spritz Cookies ½ cup shortening 1 cup light brown sugar ¼ tsp salt 1 egg 1 tsp vanilla 2¼ tsp sifted flour Heat oven to 400°. Have ungreased baking sheets, a thin metal spatula, and a cooling rack ready. Beat the shortening until soft and creamy. Add sugar and salt, beat until light. Then add the egg and vanilla, beat until well-whipped. Mix all but about two or three tablespoons of flour. If dough is too sticky, add the remaining flour. You can also add a little more if necessary. Put into cookie press. Then press the cookies onto the ungreased baking sheet. Bake 8-10 minutes (mine were done in about six), or until golden at the edges. Immediately after removing from the oven, use the spatula to transfer the hot cookies to the cooling rack. These cookies are better the day after baking. Source: Mirro cookie press instructions

Source: Mirro cookie press instructions

As Thanksgiving approaches, the baking aisle and other parts of the store are getting worryingly empty. In earlier, happier times, I would have figured it was the natural result of the holiday baking surge. But this year, I've been looking at the bare shelves and asking "Is this just the holidays, or are people quietly stockpiling before the next president launches a trade war?" 

And so, because sometimes new toys are entertaining in times of distress, I bought a Mirro press to go with my Mirro instructions. Now I only need someone to get me a Dormeyer stand mixer to go with the Dormeyer recipe book. When I turned the press' handle, it glided on its screw-threads. The whole thing felt like quality in my hands. Also, it came with little stencils for doggies and butterflies! I couldn't wait to make dog-shaped cookies.

The doggie is right under the press handle.

I only made these cookies so I could try out my exciting new toy, but I had high hopes for the recipe. I imagined they would be like a cuter-looking version of the slice-and-bake blondies from Mrs. George Thurn.

And so, we begin with brown sugar and shortening. Every recipe on this handout begins with shortening. Perhaps they were leery of overly moist butter in those days, too.

After halving so many recipes, I have gotten unexpectedly good at splitting eggs. These days, it's a trivial task. I used to put the other egg half into a frying pan for a quick mid-recipe snack, but these days I freeze it for when I'm making another half-recipe later. That's why our egg looked like this:

I forgot to defrost the egg, but figured that letting the mixer kick it around the room-temperature batter would melt it fast enough-- like when you stir butter into hot spaghetti. Sure enough, the egg was thawed and perfectly mixed after about a minute.

After our dough was floured and ready, it was time to bring in our beautiful, high-quality cookie press. We giddily learned that this new(ly acquired) press can hold a lot more dough than the first one. It nearly held all the dough at once.

Unfortunately, our cookies did not want to stick to the pan. I don't know whether to blame the recipe, the cookie press, or good old-fashioned operator error. But I had to pry about half of our cookies off of the press without bending them out of shape. Some shapes seemed to work better than others. Almost all of the butterflies and about two thirds of the stars stayed on the pan when I lifted the press off. But most of the cookies came out like this:

I also tried the tiny star, but the cookies all like ragged plops (though at least they all stuck to the pan). Even though I don't care about "presentationality," I reloaded them into the squirter. I think this tiny star stencil must have a specific use that I don't know about, because it makes ugly cookies.

I hate to say it, but I like the cheaper cookie squirter more than this one. If you ignore how the cheaper press feels like its little ratcheter could snap at any minute, it is a lot easier to use. In fact, if the cheap one proves durable, I may let the older one find a new home.

But when the vintage press worked, it worked really well. It made the cutest Christmas trees (when they actually stayed on the pan). Unfortunately, the doggie cookies I was so excited about turned into blobs. The butterflies were not much better. Someone said the dogs might actually be donkeys since those are a big part of Christmas iconography. But I don't think it matters. They look like misshapen capital H's.

The swirly starburst one is my favorite.

When the cookies were freshly baked, they were hard. Like, they put your teeth were peril. The next day, they had softened to an astonishingly perfect texture. I didn't even put them in a container. I just left them out on a plate. The day-long ripening period makes these cookies perfect when you have everyone coming over for the holidays. You can finish all the baking and cleanup the day before, and forget about them while you're frantically preparing on the morning of "the big day."

After softening overnight, these cookies were really good. They tasted exactly like I hoped they would. But while the molasses cookies had been far better than I hoped, today's cookies were merely exactly as good as I hoped. Not every recipe from an instruction manual can be a magically blissful. If I hadn't picked the molasses recipe first, this one would not have seemed like a lesser experience.