Los Angeles, California
I have to tell the truth. It's not really April. Its way past April, and I am fudging on my commitment to write at least two posts each month. Truth is, I've been on hiatus, and I will explain this shortly in a soon-to-be-published post entitled Hiatus. But I just couldn't go there after the last post. I needed some time out (from many things), and I needed to put down something that wasn't sad. I needed something life-affirming. I needed . . . cookies.
Besides, my other pledge was to include a recipe in every other post, so that I could consider what I was doing here as a sort of a food blog (delusional, but humor me). Ok, that didn't exactly turn out as planned, and that's not to mention dubious entries like that Graham Cracker Mush thing, or the Popcorn thing (even though I do think I prepare amazing-tasting popcorn). So, here is the one enlightening thing I've been doing lately. I've been reading happier books. All the books about people growing up in Afghanistan or fighting evil in Scandinavia (see previous post: The Girl with the Stupid Tattoo, available here, free, and for a limited time) were, frankly, wearing on me in my recent state. One shouldn't need psychotropic drugs just to get through their book stack. So I decided to hop on the happy train. I started in my stack of unread books, and found one that had been gifted to me several years back. It is Cooking for Mr. Latte, by Amanda Hesser. This one got me to sleep (since I read at bedtime) in a contented state of mind, with visions of sugarplums instead of heinous crimes.
You have to love a food memoirist who actually shares a recipe entitled: Frosting Minus the Cupcakes. When my mother was in the hospital this spring, I spent time in her room (in an uncomfortable chair. Why? Why?!?!) with my feet propped on her bed, cataloging Ms. Hesser's recipes on a lined tablet. It's been my go-to cookbook (even though it is ostensibly a food blog with recipes) of late. And here are the cookies, ta-da!
Chocolate Chunk-Pecan-Coconut Cookies
2 sticks unsalted butter, softened
1 cup sugar
1 cup packed light brown sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 large eggs
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
pinch sea salt
24 ounces best quality-bittersweet chocolate, chopped into
chunks, shreds & all
2 cups toasted chopped pecans
1 cup grated coconut
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease two large baking sheets. In a mixer fitted with a paddle or whisk, cream the butter with the sugar and light brown sugar until it's good and fluffy like a mousse. Add the vanilla and eggs and keep beating until it's smooth.
In a small bowl, stir together the flour, baking soda and salt. Add it to the mixer in small portions, beating it on low until blended in before adding more. Once the dry ingredients are all in there, pour in the chocolate, pecans and coconut. Fold them in by hand, with a spatula -- it is a bit of a workout, but the best way to coat the ingredients evenly.
My mother (Note: this is Amanda's mother, as I've copied the recipe verbatim) likes to chill the dough a little (30 minutes or so) before baking, which helps the cookies hold their shape better when baking. Then she uses an ice cream scoop to drop the dough onto the sheets. She flattens them lightly with her fingers, so they spread evenly. They should be about 1/2 inch thick and two inches around before baking. Bake for twelve to fifteen minutes, until lightly browned on the edges and cooked in the center. Cool on racks. Store in a cookie tin (Oh, come on. That's a little bossy!).
Makes two dozen large cookies.
Ok, so here we go. In spite of my snide commentary, Ms. Hesser's recipes are excellent, and easy to follow. And also, despite my damning-with-faint-praise title above, these are pretty amazing cookies. It makes an inordinate amount of dough, and for those of you clever enough to figure out how to use one and-a-half eggs -- you go and make a half of a batch. I made a dozen large cookies following the recipe exactly, but froze the other half of the dough. I'm planning to bake that half this week to greet approaching house guests. This should have them eating out of my hand.
One last note, Ms. Hesser's story about these cookies is that they were finishing up a stay at a vacation home (I don't know, Hamptons or Martha's Vineyard or something, I can't remember) and wanted to make a sort-of kitchen sink version of cookies to use up ingredients in the larder. This tells you (in case you didn't already know) that you can change out the nuts and play around with the chocolate, if you like. I used a lot of different bittersweet chocolate that I had around the pantry, including different percentages which rendered some of the chocolate extra-bittersweet. I even threw in some Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate chips. Just hit the ounce requirement, mas o menos.
If you love these cookies, and/or I've piqued your interest in Amanda Hesser, feel free to check out her foodblog here. I intend to read other books by her, sometime after I finish the very thick World of Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse. Did you think I was kidding about reading happier books?
So, did Cooking for Mr. Latte cheer up the sodden mess I call me? Did eating these cookies do the trick? Well, no. And no. But everything helps a little. And I will try to explain this in my coming posts. Stay tuned . . . and thank you once more for hanging in there with me and reading my blog!
April 30, 2012
April 15, 2012
April is the Cruelest Month
Los Angeles, California
Received bad news that a loss has occurred in the life of a good friend. And got stuck in that muddle of not knowing what to say. Wanting to be there for him, but not knowing what to offer besides that assurance.
Our friends become our family. But we still have our families of origin. The loss of a family member is layered by the fact that they may have known us all of our lives, for better or for worse. And, that loss cuts deeply into our past, as well as into the present. It seems not fair to have it carry that additional weight, further encumbering our sense that almost all loss feels fundamentally unfair.
And, at times like this we are reminded of the subtext underlying news that pertains to mortality -- that life is precarious, and fleeting. That the quest to live each day to its fullest is fraught with failure. That sometimes the best we can hope for is, to paraphrase Helen Hayes, to have some "ecstatic moments." And poignant memories. Last Sunday, Easter, was my parents' wedding anniversary. My mom no longer remembers this, but I do. My dad's birthday is later this month. Neither of these events have been celebrated for over a decade. It doesn't seem possible that my dad has been gone from my life for that long, but he has. That's the thing about loss and life; time ticks on. It's the only thing that succeeds, as Steve Jobs said (or words to that effect). But that isn't strictly accurate.
I have studied literature and plays; seen a lot of films. The written word frequently illustrates that love can succeed, and that, despite what I hear and repeat when I attend Mass, death succeeds ultimately and quite reliably. What I want in life is an unfailing sense that other things will succeed as well: friendship; goodwill; peace; understanding; patience; empathy. And more. Maybe if I had that, I would somehow also know what to say to my friend. What to offer besides the insipidness of let us know if there is anything we can do. But today, that was all I could say. I should have said so much more. I said it all in my head later. But maybe he knows. We are good friends; old friends. Family. And I love him. So tonight, he is very much in my thoughts. I hope he knows that, even though I didn't possess the eloquence to verbalize it. A personal snafu which, unfortunately, is business as usual.
Received bad news that a loss has occurred in the life of a good friend. And got stuck in that muddle of not knowing what to say. Wanting to be there for him, but not knowing what to offer besides that assurance.
Our friends become our family. But we still have our families of origin. The loss of a family member is layered by the fact that they may have known us all of our lives, for better or for worse. And, that loss cuts deeply into our past, as well as into the present. It seems not fair to have it carry that additional weight, further encumbering our sense that almost all loss feels fundamentally unfair.
And, at times like this we are reminded of the subtext underlying news that pertains to mortality -- that life is precarious, and fleeting. That the quest to live each day to its fullest is fraught with failure. That sometimes the best we can hope for is, to paraphrase Helen Hayes, to have some "ecstatic moments." And poignant memories. Last Sunday, Easter, was my parents' wedding anniversary. My mom no longer remembers this, but I do. My dad's birthday is later this month. Neither of these events have been celebrated for over a decade. It doesn't seem possible that my dad has been gone from my life for that long, but he has. That's the thing about loss and life; time ticks on. It's the only thing that succeeds, as Steve Jobs said (or words to that effect). But that isn't strictly accurate.
I have studied literature and plays; seen a lot of films. The written word frequently illustrates that love can succeed, and that, despite what I hear and repeat when I attend Mass, death succeeds ultimately and quite reliably. What I want in life is an unfailing sense that other things will succeed as well: friendship; goodwill; peace; understanding; patience; empathy. And more. Maybe if I had that, I would somehow also know what to say to my friend. What to offer besides the insipidness of let us know if there is anything we can do. But today, that was all I could say. I should have said so much more. I said it all in my head later. But maybe he knows. We are good friends; old friends. Family. And I love him. So tonight, he is very much in my thoughts. I hope he knows that, even though I didn't possess the eloquence to verbalize it. A personal snafu which, unfortunately, is business as usual.
April 5, 2012
The Girl with the Stupid Tattoo
Los Angeles, California
Just finished a good book that I didn't enjoy. It was entitled Contents May Have Shifted, written by Pam Houston. It was an interesting read, a bit like a collection of journal entries which, when taken in their entirety, told an outline of a tale about the protagonist, a writing professor with a penchant for exotic, even extreme, travel (much like the author herself). I didn't completely realize that I wasn't enjoying it until I finished and began a new book with a more linear story. Interestingly enough, at the same time that I was reading this book, Billy was reading A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway. And, hang onto your hats, he didn't enjoy that book -- even going so far as to say that he "didn't think the writing was very good." OK, as an English major, I'm not even going to dignify that comment with a comment.
The larger point, I think, being that we both stuck with the books we weren't enjoying, and finished them. As I wrote in my last post, I buy books. Real. Books. So, it takes a lot for me to walk away from a bad book. Lord help me, I even finished The Bridges of Madison County, though, frankly, I did snicker and roll my eyes a lot while doing so. I could probably count on one hand the number of books that I have begun and not finished, and I'm even going to count The Deerslayer by James Fenimore Cooper. It was on a class reading list in college, and something had to go that semester as I was carrying fifteen units of upper division English classes, and my head was swimming. So here it is, my confession to the world: YES! I READ THE CLIFF NOTES INSTEAD OF THE BOOK!!! I feel a whole lot better now that I have gotten that off my chest, though I still feel just very slightly guilty that I got an A in the class. I can handle it, though.
But here's a recent book I didn't finish: The Girl with theStupid Dragon Tattoo. It was like The Bridges of Madison County all over again. EVERYONE insisted that I should read this book -- people whose opinions I respect (including my friend, Jayne, who turned me on to Lisa Lutz' Spellman Books), and my very learned friend, Susan. Bookstore clerks were asking me if I had already bought the book. And so I did. I actually did make it about one hundred and fifty pages into it, and I never threw it against the wall or anything. But one night I set it down, and I never picked it up again. I didn't miss them. I was glad to be rid of them.
Then came the movie which, again, I understood that I must see. Right. My friend, Christopher, took the bullet for us when we were all in Carmel, and went to see it. He came back reporting that there were two good things about it: the credits, and Daniel Craig. And yet. And yet, I still hear people raving about both. I guess that's what makes life and people interesting. That there is always something for everyone -- although, in my opinion, any tale involving Natty Bumppo is a long shot in that equation.
Here's another confession: We saw Julie and Julia when it first came out. I so enjoyed the Meryl Streep/Julia Child portion of the film (as well as the memoir it came from). When the film made it to cable a few months back, I watched some of it several times. And what I mean by some of it is that I DVR'd it, and then only watched the Julia parts, thus saving myself from the incessant whining in the Julie segments. I thought about other films I could watch like this, and how much time it would save me in life. Like in the original Hayley Mills, Parent Trap, one could skip the whole Boston portion of that movie and just watch the beginning part when they are at camp, and the part that takes place in Monterey (the father's home is a house to die for, I think). This would be sortakinda (I've decided that this should be a word) like that short subject film that runs through all of Shakespeare's plays in under five minutes, mas o menos.
Our friends, Jim and Sue, were in town recently and when we met for dinner, I discovered that Sue is also a voracious reader. Somehow, in the past twenty-five or so years of knowing them, this got past me. Billy and I were throwing out book titles to her, trying to remember, off the top of our combined heads, books that we had recently read and enjoyed. These were the ones which raised to the top, and that we both agreed upon: The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson; The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon; Carter Beats the Devil by Glen David Gold; Away by Amy Bloom. Sue recommended a few books to us as well, including . . . wait for it . . . The Girl with theStupid Dragon Tattoo. Next time I see her, I'm going to recommend that she read The Deerslayer. Fair is fair. Natty Bumppo and I thank you for reading my blog.
Just finished a good book that I didn't enjoy. It was entitled Contents May Have Shifted, written by Pam Houston. It was an interesting read, a bit like a collection of journal entries which, when taken in their entirety, told an outline of a tale about the protagonist, a writing professor with a penchant for exotic, even extreme, travel (much like the author herself). I didn't completely realize that I wasn't enjoying it until I finished and began a new book with a more linear story. Interestingly enough, at the same time that I was reading this book, Billy was reading A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway. And, hang onto your hats, he didn't enjoy that book -- even going so far as to say that he "didn't think the writing was very good." OK, as an English major, I'm not even going to dignify that comment with a comment.
The larger point, I think, being that we both stuck with the books we weren't enjoying, and finished them. As I wrote in my last post, I buy books. Real. Books. So, it takes a lot for me to walk away from a bad book. Lord help me, I even finished The Bridges of Madison County, though, frankly, I did snicker and roll my eyes a lot while doing so. I could probably count on one hand the number of books that I have begun and not finished, and I'm even going to count The Deerslayer by James Fenimore Cooper. It was on a class reading list in college, and something had to go that semester as I was carrying fifteen units of upper division English classes, and my head was swimming. So here it is, my confession to the world: YES! I READ THE CLIFF NOTES INSTEAD OF THE BOOK!!! I feel a whole lot better now that I have gotten that off my chest, though I still feel just very slightly guilty that I got an A in the class. I can handle it, though.
But here's a recent book I didn't finish: The Girl with the
Then came the movie which, again, I understood that I must see. Right. My friend, Christopher, took the bullet for us when we were all in Carmel, and went to see it. He came back reporting that there were two good things about it: the credits, and Daniel Craig. And yet. And yet, I still hear people raving about both. I guess that's what makes life and people interesting. That there is always something for everyone -- although, in my opinion, any tale involving Natty Bumppo is a long shot in that equation.
Here's another confession: We saw Julie and Julia when it first came out. I so enjoyed the Meryl Streep/Julia Child portion of the film (as well as the memoir it came from). When the film made it to cable a few months back, I watched some of it several times. And what I mean by some of it is that I DVR'd it, and then only watched the Julia parts, thus saving myself from the incessant whining in the Julie segments. I thought about other films I could watch like this, and how much time it would save me in life. Like in the original Hayley Mills, Parent Trap, one could skip the whole Boston portion of that movie and just watch the beginning part when they are at camp, and the part that takes place in Monterey (the father's home is a house to die for, I think). This would be sortakinda (I've decided that this should be a word) like that short subject film that runs through all of Shakespeare's plays in under five minutes, mas o menos.
Our friends, Jim and Sue, were in town recently and when we met for dinner, I discovered that Sue is also a voracious reader. Somehow, in the past twenty-five or so years of knowing them, this got past me. Billy and I were throwing out book titles to her, trying to remember, off the top of our combined heads, books that we had recently read and enjoyed. These were the ones which raised to the top, and that we both agreed upon: The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson; The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon; Carter Beats the Devil by Glen David Gold; Away by Amy Bloom. Sue recommended a few books to us as well, including . . . wait for it . . . The Girl with the
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.