I was planning to do a post on potluck meals today. I was even taking notes with pen and paper. But then I ate some of the cookies—three, to be exact—that just came out of the oven, and suddenly potluck meals were no longer relevant.

So let’s talk cookies, shall we?

This morning my youngest woke up with cookies on the brain. As soon as I walked in the door after my morning run, the little lad started peppering me with questions. I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying at first—probably because my brain was still trying to catch up from the whiplash I’d just inflicted upon it: cozy dreaming to jolting pavement pounding to little voice yammering up at me—just too many transitions, and without coffee, too.

But I got my shower and made my brew and then I started to comprehend. He was saying things like: “Where’s that book that had how to make that cake you made?” And, “The one of the cake that we burned? That was in the fridge?”

Me, slowly catching on, “Oh, the chocolate cake?”

“Yeah, where’s the book that tells how to make it?”

“You want the recipe?” (This was weird.) “It’s in the latest Bon Appétit magazine. Here.” And I dug it out of the pile on the end table.

He settled down on the sofa and commenced a-flipping through the pages, mumbling, “There’s something I’m looking for… ” Then, triumphantly, “This, Mama! I want to make these cookies. Can we make these today? Can we make them, Mama? Can we?”

His finger jabbed at a picture of jam-filled cookies.

“Actually, I was wanting to try that recipe, so yes, we’ll make them. But later.”

“We’ll have to go pick the raspberries,” he announced excitedly. “There’s raspberries on top, see?”

A couple minutes later he started up again. “Can we make the cookies now, Mama?”

By then I was deeply immersed in the internets but I surfaced long enough to mutter, “Shush. Not now.”

“I can start mixing them up myself.” His voice began to shrill with frustrated impatience. “Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I?”

“I said later, hon,” I snapped. “Later!”

“I’m going to call the police ‘cause you’re not making the cookies!” he announced.

And so it went, all morning long.

The kid was on a mission. He was merciless. He was obsessed. He was rabid with cookie lust. He trailed me with that magazine, flapping it in my face every time I turned around. It was unreal and completely ridiculous. (At one point he yelled up the stairs to me where I was straightening a bedroom, “Can we have Thanksgiving?” Boy oh boy, the kid was focused!)

Finally, right before lunch, I decided it was time to zip his pesky yapper and make good on my word. Out came the whole wheat flour, baking powder, sugar, butter, and eggs and I whipped them babies up. I plopped grape jelly into half the cookie bellies while The Cookie Hound Extraordinaire spooned apricot into the other.

While the cookies baked, the children devoured a pot of peas and nearly an entire pan of mac and cheese, and then, then, they each got to pick one still-warm cookie off the tray, and—oh glory be! That cookie-obsessed child was silent! His craving sated, the tension vaporized, and I—nay, the very atmosphere—heaved a sigh of relief.

And then I sat down to write about potlucks but ended up feasting on cookies and writing this post instead.

I’m not exactly sure why they call these “shortbread cookies.” In my book, shortbread is dry, crumbly, and super buttery (and delicious). These cookies, on the other hand, have a tender, soft interior with a slight crunch around the edges. The wheat flour gives them a deeper flavor and nubbly, nutty texture that I’m wild about. And then there’s the jam, the lovely fruitiness that jacks up the cookie’s adorable factor and bestows the perfect kiss of sweet. It’s enough to make a person weak in the knees.

So, to sum up. The desperation with which my five-year-old plagued me was justified. If I was in your home right now, I’d stick the magazine picture up against your eyeballs and chant make these, make these, make these until you caved.

Which you would be wise to do.

P.S. My cookie consumption total continued to rise during the writing of this post. The final stats: five.

P.P.S. I had a tomato for supper.

P.P.P.S. Pictures of Beggar Boy taken at an earlier, non-cookie lusting date. But they get the point across, me thinks.

Whole Wheat Jammies
Adapted from the September 2011 issue of Bon Appétit

I used cooked jam in this recipe—I think a freezer jam would be a little inferior. It’s just a feeling I have, but I could be wrong…

2 cups whole wheat flour
½ cup sugar
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
10 ½ tablespoons salted butter
1 egg
1 egg yolk
3-4 tablespoons jam (red raspberry, cherry, grape, apricot, etc.)

Stir together the flour, sugar and baking powder. Rub in the butter with your fingers. Beat together the egg and extra yolk and stir it into the sandy buttery mixture. Shape the dough into about 24 balls and place the balls on two parchment-lined baking sheets. Make an indentation with your thumb in each ball of dough and spoon in a little jelly, about ½ teaspoon per cookie. Bake the cookies at 375 degrees for 10-12 minutes.

This same time, years previous: coffee fix ice cream, ricotta cheese, and pesto torte

It’s amazing how quickly I fall out of the habit of writing. A few busy days, a (routine) doctor appointment (or two), news of company coming, an afternoon nap, and whoosh, my carefully planned writing time just shrivels up and blows away.

But I’m here to take it back! To reclaim my sacred writing time! To force myself to sit down and write! Because just because I like to write doesn’t actually mean I like to write. Know what I mean?

I made it through the weekend of camping and managed to enjoy myself at the same time, which is a minor miracle, all things considered.

I didn’t sleep (much) the first night and then spent Saturday morning laughing and crying (the theme of the weekend was Laughter and Lament and the speaker delivered a hefty dose of both) so I ended up getting that wicked headache I was so afraid of. I took the pills, and they dulled the pain, but just.

For me, the best part of the weekend was watching my kids have a blast while not actually having to watch them. This was the first year they were independent. They ate and played and showered with their peers. (Okay, so we helped the littlest out with some of that stuff, but just.)

There were many, many, many occasions where I was able to fully sink into a conversation with other adults. Any time I was away from my kids (which was much of the time) or conversing uninterrupted with another adult (again, much of the time), I kept squealing to myself in my brain, “My kids are nowhere in sight and it’s totally okay!” It was kind of like poking at the proverbial sore tooth, but the opposite of that. A jolt of happy, not pain.

(A word to parents with young children that still need their butts wiped: when the little leeches de-leech, it is absolutely and totally the most wonderful thing ever! The agony and mind-numbing routines you are going through now will only heighten the feelings of ecstasy once you are set freeeeee! Believe me, tired friends. It is glorious.)

One thing I learned about camping: my husband—the guy who always picks on me for being such a stick-in-the-mud, anti-camping-and-roughing-it homebody—fussed even more than I did about going rustic. I’d be holding real still on my half of the air mattress, willing myself into the land of nod, and the entire time my husband would be delivering a running diatribe. Stupid air mattress….can’t get comfortable…the ground would be better…it’s hot in here….I’m sticky….everything feels wet…. Etcetera. It was rather distracting.

Now we’re back home and the last of the mountainous pile of laundry is billowing merrily in the breeze. We’re acclimating to being in each other’s space, 24/7, with no friends, ponds, woods to entertain us. It’s going okay, for the most part, though there was that one incident where Daughter One smacked Daughter Two in the mouth and knocked out her (loose) tooth. Once the blood and hollering subsided, I started chuckling (cue more tears from Daughter Two) and couldn’t stop. Then when Daughter One apologized, she quipped “and you’re welcome,” and Daughter Two (once she saw the humor) replied, “I forgive you. And thank you.” Oh my!

But let me tell you, there’s nothing like a mouthful of blood and a flying tooth to make you feel like you’re raising barbarians… (and then a tooth fairy no-show to make you feel like you’re losing your mind).

Oh yeah, and speaking of injuries. At camp, my oldest son ran through a door that wasn’t open.

When our friend reported the incident to us, I had two reactions.

1. “Is the door okay?”
2. Hee-hee-hee— “Wait. Is he okay? Yes? Not crying?” HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HAW-SNORT. I nearly fell off my metal folding chair.

This same time, years previous: lemon butter pasta with zucchini, hot chocolate, brown rice, white rice, and Indian chicken, pear-red raspberry coffee cake, family pictures

Popping in quick to tell you it’s kind of sunny outside and we’re going camping as a family (and with the rest of the church as witnesses) for the first time EVER. (I think.) Yours truly is going to sleep (ha!) on the ground in a tent in the forecasted crash-boom storms for two nights in a row and then attempt to not bite anyone’s head off for the rest of the weekend. I’m packing Tylenol for the aching muscles I’ll be sure to get from my bed of sticks and stones, and for the killer caffeine withdrawal headaches I’m hoping I won’t have. Wish me luck.

In other news, I made the cake that’s in the most recent issue of Bon Appétit.

I followed the instructions perfectly—except for the part where I subbed in a blow torch in place of a kitchen torch and set the icing on fire a handful of times, what a blast!

But, problem is, no one really likes the cake. There’s black pepper in the frosting and, while creative and kind of yummy in a surprising sort of this-really-IS-devil’s food! way, it is a bit much. Plus, none of us like the crunch of cacao nibs in the cake. Wow, such a tender cake and—CRUNCH, CRACK—oh my, what was THAT?

There were good things about the cake. Like the tablespoon of ground espresso stirred directly into the batter. And the ultra-smooth texture of the chocolate cream. And the fact that the cake was decadent without being overly sweet and rich. And the torched icing—now that was awesome. Fun, artsy, and dramatic, yay!

All things considered, though, the devil can have his cake.

This same time, years previous: fruit-on-the-bottom baked oatmeal, grilled salmon with lemon butter, oven-roasted shallots, drying pears