In the time when childhood counted cookies in terms of chocolate chips rather than calories, my favorite food in the entire world, edging out fried shrimp, came in a mixing bowl. I loved to spoon cookie dough into my mouth. I once went a little haywire with one of those cookie basting things, and squirted far too peanut butter cookie dough down my gullet at one time. To this day, peanut butter cookies make me shiver a bit with remembered displeasure.
I find in cookie dough a metaphor, because my life runs along rather simple lines, and metaphor defends me against a sense of being humdrum (note to the curious: I am very humdrum). I rarely want things to be exquisitely done. I usually circumvent the process of baking in order to enjoy something workable. I think that, on close scrutiny, I could justly be accused of being much less flavorful than if I allowed the cookies to fully bake, and then ate them, all television-like, just out of the oven.
I like to slice and bake. I also used recipes from the Betty Crocker cookbook, because they baked such easy cookies. I do not like to do anything that requires frosting, timing, setting or intense concentration.
Although on paper, I believe that hard work makes for the best results, in practice, I always baked cookies within my very limited grasp.
When we return to my parents' home, my mother frequently bakes one of my favorites, such as gingerbread men, to greet us on our return. She usually sets aside a dollop of unbaked dough, as a special indulgence for me.
This week rushed by in a blur, baking on the fifteen minute plan rather than on the two hour plan. Some cookies come out of the oven well-baked, while other cookies seem to singe or burn. Sometimes as I mix in the bowl, I cannot tell what kind of cookies I am making.
I think I like cookie dough because I bite into a sweet, unrefined pleasure, and I do not have to worry what it means.