Posts Tagged ‘oatmeal cookies’

Oatmeal Cookies

March 16, 2012

You know how there are times when a craving hits you with such force that it’s futile to resist? I was hit with just such a craving yesterday — for oatmeal cookies. My mother makes really good oatmeal cookies, and if she lived next door, I would have walked fifty feet and nonchalantly asked her, like Ray Romano would have, and within a couple hours there would be a plate of oatmeal cookies in front of me.

But that is not the case, since my mother lives 3000 miles away.

So I went online and found a recipe for ‘chewy oatmeal cookies,’ because chewy is the operative word and the singular requirement. None of those crunchy, thin, crumbly dry ones for me. No, they must be huge and thick and chewy.

My wife is wedded, so to speak, to recipes. She must follow them to the letter. If we do not have the right kind of vinegar — and none of the eight other kinds of vinegar we do have in stock will suffice — then my job is to drop everything and go get her the kind she wants. If the recipe calls for a dozen exotic spices, and we have only eleven, then cooking screeches to halt, and she exits stage right waving her arms about.

The thing that gets me is that even if it is a new recipe, and she has no idea what the finished dish is supposed to taste like, the fact is that if she does not have the exact set of ingredients called for, the system breaks down. I do not understand this, as my approach would be that one of the eight vinegars on hand would do a fine job of substituting, and that the eleven spices on the shelf would be great; we would be none the wiser as to the omission of that pesky twelfth.

I mean really, if you hear a concert for the first time, and there are supposed to be 18 violins in the orchestra, but one guy doesn’t make it, will your evening be ruined? If the recipe calls for 1 1/2 cups of peas, and you are one or two peas short, will the sun explode and kill us all? Um, no.

I have always looked at recipes as initial blueprints, prototypes that can be reinterpreted and improved. A pasta dish might generate more pleasure units if it had a little more cheese, or more garlic, or that roast pork tenderloin might hit more buttons if one used cherries and plums instead of apricots and apples. Cooking is play time, the pantry a chemistry set for grownups.

So when I looked at the recipe for the ‘chewy’ oatmeal cookies, I saw an opportunity for improvement. It recommended a half teaspoon of cinnamon; I used about half that and about the same of ground cloves. Cloves is my catnip, and every time I pass down the spices aisle of a grocery store, I grab the cloves and give it a good sniff, since the aroma passes through the container just enough.

The cookie recipe said that chopped walnuts were optional, so I added more than called for, since I love walnuts, along with a handful of coconut, my other secret cookie ingredient. I didn’t want to overwhelm the other ingredients — we want a nice balance — so the amount of coconut was less than the raisins and walnuts.

Something interesting about the recipe, and by ‘interesting’ I mean ‘disappointing,’ is that it gave no yield. The preliminary notes said that it was a “half recipe,” which I suppose could mean that it gave only half the instructions necessary, but I took it to mean instead that the original recipe called for twice as much of everything. But it didn’t say how many cookies it was supposed to make, which meant that it did not give an indication as to how big the cookies ought to be.

(Yes, it’s true, cooking can involve math, the thumbtack on the comfortable chair of life. If the recipe says that it makes 12 cookies, then you can start with a rough plan to make each ball approximately 1/12 of the mix in the bowl, and then adjust at the end if the numbers don’t come out right.)

So in terms of size, that meant that I was at liberty to make the things as big as I damn well pleased. Cookies as big as a catcher’s mitt might be a trifle too big, and cookies as small as a silver dollar would be too small; they had to be just right — the Goldilocks conundrum.

So when it was time to scoop up blobs of cookie dough and plop them onto the baking sheet, I had to conceive how big they ought to be. I chose a ball somewhere between a tennis ball and a golf ball, pretty close to a billiard ball. After I was done, the bowl of cookie mix had produced ten oatmeal cookie blobs.

As insider information, the author of the recipe surrendered one last tip to enhance chewiness and thickness: chill the cookies before you actually bake them. The baker qua cookie monster has two options: 1) leave the cookie mix in the bowl and throw it in the fridge, where it will keep for about a week, allowing the cookie lover to take out as much as is desired when desired and baking the cookies then; or 2) divvy up the mix into the cookie balls on a cookie sheet, and throw that into the fridge. I chose the latter, and allowed the sheet of cookies to chill for a few hours, saving the culinary rush for the dessert hour.

At about 8:30 pm I told the oven to preheat to 350 degrees, and it complied, since it knew who was boss. Soon it dinged, and I took the sheet of cookie blobs directly from the fridge and shoved it into the oven. At that point, the cookie balls were just that, spheres of uncooked cookie dough. They did not yet have the shape or appearance of cookies. I had no idea if they would eventually flatten out just right, as cookies tend to do, or if I was supposed to first flatten them a bit with a spatula. The very nature of cooking is that of experimentation, the essence of the laboratory.

The recipe said to give them 10-12 minutes, so I set the timer for ten minutes, with the intention of checking on them at that time, and then deciding if they needed a bit more cooking time. The author said to bake them up to the point “… when golden at the edges but still a little undercooked-looking on top.” At ten minutes the cookie balls were still cookie balls, albeit hotter. Concluding they needed more baking time, I popped them back in. At twelve minutes they still looked ball-like, but they had sagged a bit, which gave them more of an impression that they intended to evolve into cookies.

Do baked goods believe in evolution? If they did, that might give them a slight edge over the Christian right. Perhaps they are existentialists, prefering to think that there is nothingness, which is what my stomach felt like it contained when I first started craving oatmeal cookies.

Thinking that they needed a little assistance, I grabbed the spatula and pressed them down ever so slightly, like a guy grilling burgers might. After one more minute, the edges had that “golden at the edges” look, and indeed they looked slightly underdone on top. I pulled them out and set the tray on top of the stove. Man oh man they smelled good, the mostly classic aroma of oatmeal cookies, plus the intoxicating fragrances of cloves and coconut. Oh, yeah.

Using up more will-power than I am known for, I waited an hour or so for them to cool. And then I dove in.

They were still warm, and were thick and soft and chewy, and heavenly. (Sorry, Mom — they were better than yours.) Couldn’t eat just one, so I ate three as slowly as I could, washed down with cold white cow juice. The ten cookies didn’t last long. Guess I should make a “full recipe” next time, which might be as soon as tomorrow.