I don't really bake cookies. I love to cook. I love to bake- pies, cakes, muffins, bread. But cookies just aren't really my thing. Too finicky. Too much in and out of the oven, batch after batch. Why can't cookies be more like cakes? Pour everything in one pan, stick it in the oven for an hour, and you're done.
But at Christmas, I bake cookies. I make bar cookies and peanut butter balls and lemon cookies. I love to make all the cookies that mom and I used to make when I was growing up. I give them as gifts, I put them in the freezer for later, I set them out when friends come over.
And I will admit that somewhere, in the back of my mind, I always thought "Wow, Steve must feel so lucky. He has his pick of all these cookies, right here in his house." So one year, after probably four married Christmases, I asked him, "What's your favorite kind of cookie?" And he said, "Oh, probably something plain, like chocolate chip."
I rarely make chocolate chip cookies. And by rarely, I mean it's probably happened once in the last seven years. Rare. So you can imagine my dismay when my sweet husband, whom I've been thinking has it so great because of all these fancy cookies, tells me (in a very nice way) that I'm never making his favorite kind.
So this morning, as I was at home and feeling especially grateful for the wonderful man I get to live with, I decided that he should get a treat today. A treat like four dozen chocolate chip cookies. And you know what? They were even kind of fun to make. But mainly because I could imagine someone coming home from work and discovering them and asking if he could please just have one before dinner.
My other project for the day is finishing a little welcoming gift for a certain someone who is occupying my thoughts these days.
Not too bad, for a Wednesday.
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