I’m in a food funk. There is no bread in the house. Two nights ago I made (flat) cornbread to go with our soup and then last night I asked Mr. Handsome to pick up some bread and lunch meat from the store on his way home. Supper was ham and sweet Lebanon bologna sandwiches and (leftover) potato salad. We were all thrilled because we love love love bologna sandwiches, but at one point Miss Beccaboo looked out over the table and said, “Wow, Mom. Everything on this table was bought at the store except for the lettuce!”

“Actually, honey,” I said, “the lettuce was bought, too. The only thing not bought”—and here I paused to assess the situation—“is the egg that I used to make the mayonnaise that’s in the potato salad.”

But conditions are improving! I woke up my baby and tomorrow I’ll bake it. (For those of you new here, that’s a sourdough starter I’m talking about—don’t go call CPS on me, ‘kay?) I made a batch of granola last night. Tonight will be a supper of nourishing leftovers (read, there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth), and I have a few fun recipes up my sleeve.

Actually, thanks to Cook’s Illustrated what I want to make right now is a fresh pork roast. I know! After Saturday’s events and I’m hankering after piggy! And not even disguised piggy, like the sausage we’ve been eating, but a whole honkin’ huge pig leg brined in Coca-Cola. I am barbaric—there are no two ways around it.

But don’t worry. I have no pork leg, nor any Coke, so it’s not going to happen.

Yet.

Hm. What to write about…

I know. I’ll tell you about the three cookies that I just ate with my coffee.

I ate three cookies with my afternoon coffee!

There. Wasn’t that a great story?

Only someone as confused as me would make cookies in the weeks following Christmas. But see, after all the recipe reading that happened in the weeks leading up to Christmas, I got a lot of ideas for more cookies. So, with leftover Christmas cookies still hiding out in the freezer, I got out the butter and sugar and made even more. I’m twisted that way.

But it was totally worth it.

These cookies flashed across my radar during the week between Christmas and New Year’s, the week that Mr. Handsome stayed home from work. One afternoon—I think the only afternoon I went anywhere during that long, lazy week—I took off for town, the two girls in tow. We did some errands and such, but finally we ended up at our main destination: Barnes and Noble. I ordered a large caramel macchiato and two extra cups. After I divided the coffee out between the three of us (I got the lioness’s share, of course), we headed back to the children’s section to stake out our territory.

(Note: when we lived deep in the West Virginia hills, my dad used to stake out his territory in a most literal sense—he peed all around the perimeter of the garden to keep the deer away.)

(Note: I did not pee around the perimeter of Barnes and Noble.)

I snagged some books from the cooking section and then returned to the kids’ table to do my reading and note-taking. Two hours later I informed the girls it was time to go, but they begged otherwise. We stayed another hour after which I told them we really had to leave. We did another errand, and on the way back to the car we passed by the bookstore again. Both girls pleaded to go back in and read some more.

I said no but inside I was rejoicing. I have bookstore accomplices in my very own family! I have produced offspring who cheerfully, happily, ENTHUSIASTICALLY sit for hours in a book store, sipping coffee, listening to canned music, reading till their eyes glaze over. Wow. I have longed for this day for years—through all the stilted (failed) bookstore dates with my husband, through all the years of toddler tyranny, and now. Now. Now they join me in caffeinated and literary paradise! Glory be!

But the cookies. Oh yes, the cookies.

One of the books I snatched off the shelf was a Martha Stewart Cookie Book. I think I jotted down no less than four of her recipes while skimming through the book. (Yes, I carried in a small stack of scrap paper and pen, fully intending to do some recipe copying. It was my goal.)

I was drawn to the butter cookie section. I’m not sure why. I don’t consider myself a butter cookie freak. Butter cookies are rather simple and unassuming, the ones that get left till last on the Christmas cookie platter (unless they’re iced and decked out in glitzy colored sugars). But I do love me a simple cookie. I like the fancier fare plenty much, but they get old pretty fast. (Remember this post about cakes and floozies?) It’s the simple confections that have the most integrity, the ones I want to hang out with over the long haul. Me and cookies—we is some good friends, we is.

Plus, who can turn down a simple butter cookie that’s been jacked up with rum, orange zest, and coconut in such a way that it enhances, rather than detracts from, the cookie’s true core of buttery-ness?

Truth be told, I wasn’t too sure about these cookies at first. I’m not a fan of rum raisin anything (especially not the ice cream, a flavor which was rampant in Nicaragua), I don’t especially care for currants, and well, I was a little tired of cookies. But I went ahead and made them anyway—it was the rum that spoke to me, not to mention the zest and coconut.

Which I already mentioned, I think.

These cookies— Well, I’m not sure how to describe them. The texture is outstanding. Sublime. Different from any buttery shortbread confection I have ever eaten. The cookie is incredibly light, yet nubbly from the coconut and chewy from the currants. There is no alcoholic taste, though there is a depth which I believe can be attributed to the rum. The orange zest adds a light punch that makes you sit up straighter and pay attention.

Which I suggest you do.

Rum Raisin Shortbread
Adapted from the cookbook Martha Stewart’s Cookies

½ cup rum
1 cup currants
2 sticks butter
3/4 cup confectioner’s sugar
½ teaspoon orange zest, packed
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 ½ cups flour
3/4 cup unsweetened, grated coconut
1 teaspoon salt

The day before making the cookies, put the currants in a bowl and add the rum. Press the currants down, trying to submerge them all, and then cover the bowl with a piece of plastic wrap. Let the bowl sit on the counter at room temperature over night.

The following morning, pour the currants into a strainer that is set a-top a bowl. Allow them to rest for 15-30 minutes to thoroughly drain. Reserve 2 tablespoons of the drained-off rum and discard the rest. (Most of the rum will have been absorbed by the currants, so you’ll only be throwing out a tablespoon or so of excess.)

Cream together the butter and confectioner’s sugar. Add the orange zest, vanilla, and 2 tablespoons of reserved rum and beat a little more. Beat in the salt and flour, and then add the coconut. Stir in the drained currants.

Divide the dough into two parts and shape each half into a log about 8 inches in length and 2 inches in diameter. For smaller, daintier cookies, make the logs even longer. Wrap the logs in plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for several hours (or several days) until ready to slice and bake.

Slice the cookies into 1/4-inch slices and set them on greased cookie sheets. Bake the cookies at 325 degrees for 12-20 minutes, or until lightly golden brown on the edges. Cool completely before storing in a pretty glass jar on the kitchen counter. (The cookies freeze well, too.)

This same time, years previous: creamy blue cheese pasta with spinach and walnuts

I was scrolling back through my photos and realized that I have lots of evidence of kiddling shenanigans that I have yet to share with you. So, no point in dilly-dallying. Let’s go!

First up, take a gander at these wallets.

They’re made out of duct tape! Yo-Yo learned how to do this at his friend’s house and then he bought himself a roll of duct tape and started smacking together a bunch of wallets.

It kept him busy for a couple days—totally worth the eight dollar roll of tape. (Except, I think he got a generic tape because it smells rank. If you’re going to do this, buy the real deal.)

Here is Miss Beccaboo learning how to type…while sporting a queenly crown fashioned from a Barbie doll dress and a straight pin.

Here is the dish drainer after Yo-Yo finished washing them.

I bought a wig at the thrift store, handed it over to my kids, and crossed my fingers that it wasn’t hopping with lice.

My son loves it.

My daughter loves it.

My husband loves it.

Here we have a rigged light switch, courtesy of Yo-Yo. (Ignore the graffiti.)

He wanted to be able to turn his ceiling light off without climbing down from his loft, so he tied two strings to the switch and then ran them up along his ceiling, using hook-y things to hold them in place.

At the other end up in his loft, he tied a Lego piece to the end of each string.

Pull one and then light goes on. Pull the other and the light goes off.

I’ve been watching an episode from the Cook’s Illustrated DVD almost every day. The three younger kids usually join me.

Yesterday we learned how to make pommes anna and then Miss Beccaboo made a pommes anna out of play dough. She had the technique down pat.

The kids have to bring in wood almost daily.

When they get smart, they turn it into a game and make a chain.

Yo-Yo has been hankering after a bow and arrow so Mr. Handsome told him to make one.

Yo-Yo made two.

I’m not sure how this picture ended up on my camera. I think the kids maybe stole it, the dirty little rascals. Anyway, I’m glad to have that picture now because it means I can tell you about the latest bit of terror they have inflicted upon me. See that bust that a woozy-looking Yo-Yo is shouldering? That’s a bust of a two-year-old Yo-Yo, done by my youngest brother. (I think?) It weighs a ton. It’s pink.

The kids like to stick it places and then wait for all hell to break loose. Actually, they don’t usually see my reaction because they’re sound asleep, but that doesn’t stop them. They set it up some place and then go to sleep and when I come up to check on them I freak out so bad I about pee my pants. Just the other night I walked into Yo-Yo’s room, which was eerily lit by an orange electric candle, and there was the bust atop a blanket-draped stool. It nearly did me in.

This same time, years previous: earthquake cake

I am a true blonde!

I learned this from none other than my eye doctor. This is the first time I’ve ever been to this actual eye doctor—I haven’t been to see an eye doctor in years and years and years—so to call her my eye doctor is perhaps a little forward. However, I totally dig her style, so I’m more than ready to call her my doctor. Heck, she’s going to be the whole family’s eye doctor, should I ever decided they need one.

Anyway, at one point in the hour-long session she peered into my eyeball with a laser lens do-hickey thing and then sat back and said, “Huh. You’re a true blonde, aren’t you?”

“What? Uh— Um… yeah, I guess so,” I stammered, confused.

She rushed to explain. “Most people have pigment in their eyes—I can see it with this lens. But with you there is no pigment. That’s how I know.”

Seriously? I’m pigmentless in my eyeballs? Wow.

She explained that fair people like me are more sensitive to sunlight and that sunlight can actually physically damage the eye. For example, light-skinned people are more susceptible to cataracts, and cataracts are partially a result of sun damage. I should be wearing sunglasses, she said, and not just for a fashion statement, either. (Also, most sun damage happens before 18 years of age so it’s a good idea for kids to wear sunglasses, too.)

I came away from her office with a diagnosis of a stigmatism, farsightedness (hard proof that my body is going to pot), and a recommendation that I find myself some reading glasses (I’m going for the cheap drugstore version) and a couple pairs of sunglasses.

The same day I had my eye appointment, all four of the kids had dentist appointments.

Remember the last time that Sweetsie went to the dentist? Yeah, me too. Not a good memory at all. After that failed attempt, I took Sweetsie along to the next scheduled appointment but told her that she couldn’t get the prize bag if she didn’t sit in the chair and do what the dentist said. When we walked out of that office, the other three children merrily brandishing their new toothbrushes and floss, she sobbed.

This time she said she’d sit in the chair and she wanted to be first in line. Ahead of time, I had secretly asked the office to do an abbreviated cleaning for her, and they played their part to the hilt, explaining everything, cheering her on, brandishing the prize bag, and generally keeping her mind on other things. Sweetsie sat on my lap, and though I could feel her trembling and shaking down to her toes, she minded her manners (did I ever tell you about the time she kicked her allergist?), followed directions, and even flashed some smiles. This time when we left the office, every single one of my children had new toothbrushes and Sweetsie was glowing.

Sometimes kids just need to grow up, you know? Back then, in the midst of those horrible appointments, I suspected that was the case—she was just terrified and stubborn and needed a little space to mature. Or at least I hoped that was the case. I really didn’t know, but I went with my mother’s intuition, decided that there was no danger in waiting a year or two, and tried to take a relaxed approach. It took nearly two years for her to grow up, but my patience finally paid off. I’m thankful that’s the case, but I wish that myself of one year ago could have had a peek at last week’s appointment. It would have eased my anxiety tremendously.

Makes me wonder what worries I have now that are just as unnecessary…

My friend, Thy Hand, is doing a giveaway for Yo-Yo. If you want to toss your name into the bag for the chance to win one of three pieces of jewelry (you’ve got options!), head over to her blog and leave a comment.

(It was my idea that he do a giveaway, but Yo-Yo had to help come up with the plan, write the initial email, and do some of the follow up correspondence. It’s all made for a valuable lesson in advertising, communication, and business economics.)

This same time, years previous: a rant against the boob tube