I finished up the last of the bread baking on Friday.

I’m sick of baking bread, as in I-can-hardly-stand-to-eat-bread-anymore sick. My refrigerator seemed to always be loaded down with the proofing bread (and now it’s my freezer that’s loaded down), and I was putting so much of my energy into feeding the starters and mixing and shaping and baking when I already had the extra work of Christmas baking and menu planning. I was spending way too much time in the kitchen, so it’s with an enormous sigh of relief that I put the baby away.

I will not bake more sourdough till 2009. Merry Christmas!

I’m sitting at a bagel shop, chewing on an plain egg bagel, drinking the cup of café con leche that I brought from home (yes, I do believe I’m turning into a coffee snob), and writing. I have been in the house for the past two days, only going outside to get the mail and hang up laundry, so I was getting a little stir-crazy. My goal is to write for two hours and then head home to join the cleaning/cooking/tree-decorating melee. Um, on the other hand, maybe I’ll stay here for three hours instead of the agreed-upon two. Think Mr. Handsome would mind?

Speaking of Mr. Handsome. He got up at 4:30 this morning—we went to sleep at 9:30, so waking up at that early hour wasn’t a truly terrible thing—and went downstairs and started cleaning. I was supposed to leave the house at 6:30 this morning, but I didn’t wake up till 6:38. I rushed downstairs to see if it was still okay if I left (the question was more protocol than anything else because I wasn’t about to give up my get-out-of-the-house-and-write time), and there he was, scrubbing down the hanging light above the kitchen sink. When I came out of the bathroom he had moved on to wiping—nay, washing—down the open shelving in the kitchen, and by the time I was leaving, the upper half of his torso was stuffed under the kitchen sink where he was fixing the leaky sink. And then, when the car windshield was too icy, he, without me saying a word, pulled on a coat and went out and readied the car for me.

What a man.

On the other hand, it is his family that is coming to visit, so he better help out.

But! That doesn’t negate the fact that he’s taking charge and initiative (I did have a list of stressing-me-out-items conveniently scrawled on our hallway’s white board—this morning I noticed there were several blank spaces that had been erased), and I just adore a man who takes the cleaning initiative.

You know, that was one of the first things I noticed about Mr. Handsome, besides his black hair and blue eyes and less-than-dainty speech. Mr. Handsome had come down to Texas to visit his sister, who’s voluntary service unit I was a part of for the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. I had organized a house cleaning for our unit’s activity night (writing that just made me feel like a total stick-in-the-mud Prude, with a capital P, but, in my defense, the house was Filthy, with a capital F.) The evening of our cleaning spree, Mr. Handsome drove up in his red pick-up truck, charged into the kitchen, plunked down his toolbox, and proceeded to yank the stove away from the wall and start scrubbing. (I don’t remember how his toolbox helped him with scrubbing the walls—he probably fixed something while he was back there.) I already had my eye on that boy, but I payed extra close attention after that.

Ladies, if you are looking for a man, a real man, I suggest you orchestrate a cleaning party of some sort, invite the man-under-scrutiny, and see what sort of damage he can do with some Ajax and a cleaning rag. If he brings a toolbox, he gets bonus points. This a true-blue test, I’m tellin’ ya. I’m sure it’s noted in some dating handbook . . . somewhere.

Okay, that’s enough of that. I’m here to tell you about another cookie recipe. I said that I would try to get them all down, and so I have to, well, get them down. So, enough of the rambling.

Everyone makes Gingerbread Cookies for Christmas. I think. I mean, gingerbread is Christmas, even in other cultures. Maybe especially in other cultures. If you’ve read Treasures of the Snow, you will recall that on Christmas Eve all the Swiss village children sled down the mountain to the village church for the Christmas program, at the end of which every child is given a gingerbread man. Lucien and Annette (neighbors and main characters) walk back up the mountain together; Lucien eats his gingerbread all at once, but Annette saves hers. When she gets home she heads for the barn loft instead of the Chalet, in order to talk to the cows about the birth of the Christ child and to enjoy the Christmas magic. But then her father comes looking for her. Her mother just had a baby and wants to talk to Annette, so Annette hurries inside. And thus begins the story. It makes for a fantastic read-aloud.

Back to gingerbread: I made some. I think part of the reason that the kids are thrilled by the little men is that they are, well, little men, and naturally, little men-shaped cookies taste better than a plain circle cookies.

I hardly ever make cut-out cookies during the year (except for butter cookies at Valentine’s Day) because it just takes too dang long. Back when I had more time, I would ice the gingerbread people with a tube decorator, and one year I made a whole batch of bikini-clad gingerbread ladies—they tickled me pink. Now, I just ice the genderless people with a thin layer of buttercream frosting. It’s supposed to take less time, but it still ends up taking plenty long.

I actually like the simplicity of the iced little men/women/boys/girls. Simplicity is classy, right?

Gingerbread Men
Adapted from my mother’s recipe

The absence of salt is not a typo, just in case you were wondering.

3 sticks butter
2 cups sugar
2 eggs
½ cup molasses
2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
3 cups all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons cinnamon
4 teaspoons cloves
4 teaspoons ginger
4 teaspoons baking soda

Mix together the butter and sugar. Add the eggs and molasses and beat some more. Add the dry ingredients and mix well. Cover the dough with plastic wrap, or a shower cap, and chill in the refrigerator for a couple hours.

On a well-floured counter, roll the dough out to a one-eighth inch thickness. Cut out the little men, place them on lightly-greased cookie sheets (they will puff, just a little, so keep about a half-inch space between the cookies), and bake them at 350 degrees for about 10 minutes. I like my gingerbread to be crispy, so I bake them till they’re starting to brown around the edges, but if you like them soft, under-bake them just a tad.

After removing the cookies from the oven, allow them to rest on the hot cookie sheet for a couple minutes (this extra time allows them to firm up a bit) before transferring them to a cooling rack. Once they are completely cool, ice them with buttercream frosting, in whatever fashion strikes your fancy.

To freeze: see the directions for the butter cookies.

Buttery. Crunchy. Sweet. Salty.

What am I talking about? Can you guess? Need some more clues?

Decadent. Nutty. Easy. A little bit expensive.

But, worth every penny, definitely.

Now do you know? Yes? That’s right! I’m talking about brittle. Cashew brittle, to be exact. And it’s very important to be exact here, because cashew brittle is different from peanut brittle is different from almond brittle is different from pecan brittle is different from macadamia brittle, and out of all those different brittles, cashew brittle is The Best. At least I think it is. I’ve never had pecan or almond or macadamia brittle, so I’m just spouting off here, but I’m pretty sure I’m right.

Is there even any such thing as pecan brittle?

I found the recipe on Luisa’s blog, and so I mixed up a batch last night before supper. The recipe called for one and a half pounds of cashews, but I was six ounces short. And she said to cook the syrup (no candy thermometer required) till golden brown, about ten minutes. Well, after eleven minutes of a rolling boil, the syrup was a yellow-golden so, even though I thought it seemed a bit more pale than I expected it to, I decided that it must be ready. I dumped it out on my parchment paper-covered cookie sheets (I had sprayed the paper with cooking spray), but I could tell, almost immediately, that I had a taffy on my hands—there was nothing brittle going on. Nothing whatsoever. I scooped up some of the flavorless goo (I do believe the flavor of the brittle comes from the caramelization of the sugars) and set it on a little plate so that the kids could have some tastes after supper, and then I discreetly threw the rest into the garbage. That’s right, I did not even give any to the chickens—they would’ve been cackling-thrilled over the nuts, but they would not have been able to eat more than one cashew a piece because after the first bite their beaks would’ve been glued shut. And a non-cackling chicken just ain’t a chicken, in my opinion.

Failing in the kitchen (usually) only serves to get me fired up, so when I realized that I had just experience a First Class Failure, my eyes took on a glinty gleam, my chin jutted out an extra one and three-quarter inches, and I scrubbed out the gooey pot with a little more elbow grease, soap, and water than was actually necessary.

Luisa had said it was a simple recipe. She said, and I quote, “… And so, so easy. I mean, do-it-in-you-sleep easy.” Oh, the insult! This was a failure of the worst sort, a Totally Uncalled For Screw-up. You can do better, I snapped at myself.

So that night, when Miss Becca Boo and I drove into town to stock up on library books, we swung by the grocery store and I picked up three bags of salted, roasted cashews—a total of one and a half pounds—and this morning, first thing (that is, after taking the sourdough out of the fridge and measuring the flour and starters for some new breads), I made another batch of brittle.

I did make a couple changes, the first being that I halved the recipe, just in case I was going to be an Extra Slow Learner. And I buttered my parchment paper this time. Actually, Luisa told me to butter the paper the first time around, but I had used spray instead because it seemed simpler, and while it wasn’t the spray’s fault that my brittle was not brittle, I have a feeling the brittle, had it been successful, would’ve tasted like . . . spray. So I used butter this time. And I cooked the syrup till it was a nice golden-brown color. It took close to twenty minutes, so I probably should’ve had the burner set higher than the called-for medium-high setting.

Folks, I am pleased to announce that I am not an Extra-Slow Learner. I made Cashew Brittle and it is knock-‘em-down, kick-butt good. I will be making it for the rest of my life.

Cashew Brittle
Slightly adapted from Luisa’s blog, The Wednesday Chef

1 stick butter
1/3 cup light corn syrup
½ cup, plus 2 tablespoons, water
2 cups sugar
12 ounces cashew, roasted and salted
1 ½ tablespoons kosher salt
½ teaspoon baking soda

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, not an enormous one but definitely a good-sized one, measure in the butter, corn syrup, water, and sugar. Turn the burner on medium-high (or high) heat and stir occasionally. Or, if you’re obsessing like I was, then stir it all the time—you won’t hurt it.

After the syrup is golden-brown (clue: it should be the same color as the finished brittle), remove it from the heat and stir in the baking soda and salt. (Yes, it really does say to use 1 ½ tablespoons of salt, and no, it does not taste too salty.) Stir in the cashews.

Pour the candy out on your buttered-parchment paper-covered cookie sheet and spread it as thin as you can. (Do NOT use wax paper!) Mine got a little too thick, but I still think it tastes just fine. After it’s hardened (about ten or fifteen minutes) break the candy up into pieces and store in an air-tight container.

It’s time to get the kids up from rest time, but before I do so, I’m going to go help myself to another piece of that buttery, salty, sweet, nutty, crunchy, easy, expensive-but-worth-every-penny, decadent cashew brittle. Mmm, so good. Maybe just one more piece…