PATCHWORK COOKIES

We were going out to our favorite Japanese place tonight, for our littlest GrandGirl (2 ½) has never seen all the flim-flammery and artistry of those flashing blades and onion volcanoes.
She’s having a sleepover with us, and since the weather has been what she calls “grumpy” all day, with cold drizzles and occasional downpours, we decided to make it a home-evening.

We came to that decision in the grocery store, as we watched the folks running through the rain, splashing in puddles and coming in the doors like shivery pups, ready to divest themselves of wet jackets and hats. So we threw two little packs of Stouffer’s lasagna in the buggy, along with assorted snacks and the makings of a good romaine/red onion/Mandarin salad (she will eat two kid-cups of those little golden nuggets at a time, if we allow).

Then AFTER we were back in the house with all those bags of groceries, leaning over the too-full-already freezer with sprouts and trout and peas, trying to wade our way into THE ROOM to put away the canned and boxed goods (I’m tellin’ you---if those Sherpas go on strike again, we’ll never find our way out)---Chris said brightly, “Why don’t she and I make COOKIES?”

And so they are---this minute. I went upstairs to the left-from-Christmas stash of sweet-supplies, finding half a bag of Ghirardelli white chocolate chips, about half a cup of Tollhouse regulars in a little Rubbermaid, an unopened bag of chopped Macadamias in a drawer, and then raided the lovely small candy-dish of its little chocolate buttons, as Nigella calls them. And, of course, there is always a bag of fat pecans---in the freezer or Cold Room, awaiting the toasting or chopping.

So, now, my two CookieChefs are in the kitchen in matching aprons (he’s wearing mine, and is quite fetching in the lovely pale green-with-yellow sash), and she’s oh-so-proud of hers. I’ve been taking pictures sorta down the counter as they measured the sugar (I hope the camera caught that great snowfall as she poured from pyrex cup to bowl), and the scent of toasting pecans and vanilla is wafting, wafting.

I’ve just been informed that “Ganner Spill it!!” and I’m not going to look or inquire. I DID forget to tell him that her version of cracking an egg is to grasp it in both hands and squeeze with all her might, but she's never yet succeeded in breaking one. Today may be the day.

So, after while, we’ll be having a nice plate of warm Toll-mac-whi-peca-choco-butt cookies, straight from the oven---wonder how THAT would go over at the Pillsbury Bakeoff?

And I’m fairly certain we may not need that lasagna after all. One of the loveliest times I can remember was the night our Georgia five arrived about one a.m. from that long drive, and everybody collapsed around the dining table, close and cozy, as Ganner took the cookies out of the oven and we all had a past-midnight feast of warm cookies and cold milk. I still smile at the memory of those little faces, sleepily amazed and delighted at the unacustomed treat. We washed chocolate-smeared hands and faces and all tumbled into our beds.

I have this theory that if disagreeing lawmakers, rulers and deciders would just desert those smoke-filled rooms for a nice kitchen with the scent of cookies baking, and all settle down over a homey table, wonders and miracles would occur. Dare we hope?