Cooking Crybaby: Wine Dinner

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Wine Dinner

The gales sailed through, the sky cleared, and a rainbow over Rocky River led us straight to Tartine for a wine dinner. Five Spanish wines served with elegant tapas.

We learned two things: (1) Mark does not care for squid salad, but he does like the combination of Manchego cheese and quince; and (2) not a good idea to schedule early morning meeting the day after a wine dinner.

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What's all the crying about?

It was December 1990, in Mom and Dad’s brand new colonial with the big new kitchen. Beth was home from college. All year long I had fantasized about it. Baking Christmas cookies from the bonus “cookies” book that came with the red-and-white-checkered Betty Crocker Cookbook I received for Christmas the year before.

I had arranged the suburban kitchen island like the set of of a cooking show. Having learned from past mistakes, I had all the ingredients and tools ready to go: bowls of all sizes, flour, sugars, eggs, vanilla, mixer, pastry blender, cookie sheets, food coloring.

Beth cracked open a beer, ready to heckle more than help. My mom patiently tied an apron around her, in that gentle way that moms do, knowing you have to let the kid crash and burn in order for them to learn.

We would make the Santa cookies. Little Santa figurines made from dyed sugar cookie dough. Enchanting little fellas. We followed the directions carefully: One bowl of red dough for the bodies and hats; a bowl of black for the boots and belt; a bowl of plain for the faces, hat tips and gloves. We would use tiny candies for the eyes and buttons.

To make three dozen Santa cookies, I rolled up approximately 252 little dough balls of varying sizes. Carefully, I formed the pieces and pinched together the bodies, placing them on parchment lined baking sheets. Oven preheated to 350. Go time.

“They’ll probably taste like crap,” Beth taunted.

“Whatever,” I responded, smug.

I monitored them through the glass oven window, time ticking. The cookies plumped merrily as they baked. I took them out after 11 minutes, placing them on the stove top, cooling rack poised. They were beautiful. My Mom was surprised and relieved. Even Beth was impressed.

I relaxed, letting the warm vibes of family, holidays and home-baking seep over me like a hot, sweet icing.

Batch number two now halfway through baking, I turned my attention to the first batch, slowly sliding a spatula under a firm, hot Santa cookie ready to make the transfer to the cooling rack. Deftly, I slipped it off the spatula.

And it all fell apart.

First the red triangular-shaped hat cracked off and fell through the slats of the cooling rack, crumbs tumbling. Then, when I attempted to reattach it, the mittens fell off. I took a deep breath. I tried another one. Same thing. Dammit!

My Mom, she can be so kind. “Maybe they need to cool longer?” She suggested. “Maybe we can make an egg wash and glue them back together?” My face grew hot and red. Nothing worked. In a baker’s rage, I scooped up the warm fresh cookie parts, smashed them together in my hands, and threw them in the trash.

I turned to my sister, who sat watching me, wide-eyed and afraid. Then, on the verge of bursting into tears, I laughed. We all did. Big, ridiculous, soothing laughter.

That’s how my story begins. Cooking triumphs and tragedies: from the thrill of perfectly-sauced homemade pasta to crying over burnt onions. The triumphant beef tenderloin, medium rare, from Christmas Eve 2009. The apple-carmel cheesecake disaster of Easter, 2007. But, there is nothing quite like getting it right. Like when Mark takes the first taste of new recipe and says, surprised, “You could actually serve this to company.”

Lessons Learned from the Santa Cookie Disaster of 1990: (1)
Give yourself an entire day for a recipe like this; (2) Do a test run before rolling out 252 dough balls; and (3) Buy the darling Santa cookies at the bakery, and live to bake another day.

Cooking Crybaby

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Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Wine Dinner

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