Journeyman

it came out of the wordwork

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Not a lot to report, so I wander
coffee
kinzel
Not a lot to report. I'm going back to bed in a little bit. Last night's triumph was getting Pandora to play on the netbook -- Haysus the Asus -- meaning I can have my music wherever I want in the house. Like bedside, near the humidifier and the Kleenex. Otherwise, a ramble.



I have it on good authority (like from an unattributed info line on a Christmas gift calendar!) that the average American eats 35,000 cookies in their lifetime. They don't say if that's 35,000 commercial Llf/Nabisco/Archway/Hydrox cookies or cookies of all types. I think I'm an overachiever there, despite my recent slowdown -- on account of my mother. You see, in our neighborhood, once we moved to the country, my mother became known among a certain group of neighbors as "Cookie" ... so much so that some were surprised to discover in later years that her name is actually Helen.




Oh, but she got to be called Cookie because the first three or four times the local neighborhood morning coffee-sitters came by the house, my mother was baking cookies. *And,* when my mother went "up the road" (a technical term for driving north-west a half mile and turning right on a ridge road rising into a strange area of natural wonder called Soldiers Delight) to have coffee, she took cookies with her. It wasn't until later that she began taking some of her other favorites (like peach cake) and whoever heard of anyone named"Peachcake", anyway?"

The whole cookie thing happened because my mother was a city girl suddenly remarried and tucked away in a house in the middle of nowhere. Consider someone who grew up in a Baltimore row house, moving to place where the nearest neighbor was a little over a quarter mile away, if one was willing to trust the shaky hand-built wooden bridge across Locust Run (one of the major contributors to the Liberty Lake reservoir). With two kids in school, one underfoot, and soon enough another in the way, she needed to do *something* and so she did what her grandmother and aunt did -- she baked. And since the house in the country had a pretty good-sized pantry, she accumulated 5 gallon potato chip cans from various of our relatives, lined them with waxed paper or aluminum foil, and filled them. With cookies. Sugar cookies, peanut butter cookies, chocolate chip cookies (Tollhouse when they could be afforded, of course), rum cookies, cookies using our own walnuts, sugar cookies with colored sprinkles on them, plain sugar cookies, cookies shaped by any of dozens of cookie cutters she'd fallen heir to. I liked the train, but soon only the locomotive was left, I also like the stars....

The cookie baking, for years -- for decades! -- started before Halloween and ran until New Years at least: it wouldn't do for the house to run out watching a bowl game! We're not talking a few dozen cookies here, we're talking a hundred dozen here and a hundred dozen there ...

So, I ate cookies. Far too many, I'm sure.




So, what cookies do you bake for yourself, which do you bake for company? And how many hundred dozen do you do a year?

For me, time for a nap.

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