In the kitchen: Baking with Martha

I have Martha-hatred. I don’t mean that I have a dartboard with her picture on it. I don’t seethe, I don’t silently curse her name, I am, in fact, indifferent. Which, I believe, is the true meaning of hatred.

I realize that that is probably sacrilege to a lot of folks, and a tad out of place on a blog entitled “good stuff”, but frankly I do not care. She is a felon, a liar, her ‘Apprentice’ show was cancelled for sucking so badly (okay, on the real it was probably because, as Patti suggests, her audience was oversaturated), and although I knit I do not want to make a poncho like the one she was wearing when she was released from prison. Don’t don’t don’t.

That said, the woman is a cookie-baking genius. Darn her.

Saturday was a momentous day hereafter known as “the baking of cookies”. This day came yearly when I was a child- I was the family cookie baker. I was universally accepted as “The Baker of Christmas Cookies”. All hail me. I had friends over. We baked M&M cookies, fruitcake cookies, and sugar cookies, and something else that has been lost to antiquity, and I made fudge, and it was goooooooood.

I should explain that I made fudge so great that when the holidays approached I would get phonecalls, “You’re coming home, right? You’re making your fudge, right?”(This, by the way, is the same fudge you find the recipe for on the back of the jar of marshmallow fluff. This is not culinary brain surgery here.)

Anyway, the folks started counting calories, so cookie consumption took a dive for a few years. Now it’s just that having my mother do the great stress-out means that no guests are allowed while she is preparing. And thusly no cookie par-teh.

Patti, on the other hand, who owns her kitchen, got ahold of Martha the Ice Princess’ “Holiday” cookie mag. And her friend Jenny was down from NYC to see Kai-wonderful boy. And so there was baking. All hail Patti.

She got the mise en place together while Branden scampered to and from the grocery store fulfilling Martha’s every ingredient whim. It was fabulously… domestic. We had to deprogram after by eating Papa John’s and drinking a lot of wine while watching the Hitchhiker’s Guide and swearing a lot.

You should see this thing- this “Holiday”. It is a cookie bible. Rosemary lemon, bull’s eyes (and I don’t mean with Hershey’s Kisses in the center), grasshoppers, key lime bars, and so many thousands of yummies that just beg to be baked.

I was at the “maul” today, finishing up my shopping and almost bought the mag. It would do me no good. For I have Martha-hatred and those almond tuiles would turn to ashes in my mouth. Plus Mom is afraid of new recipes. She is also afraid of Amazon wish lists, but that is another story.

Darn you Martha Stewart. Darn the chewy deliciousness of your cookies. May you grow fat upon them.

Now if you will excuse me there is a plate of caramel cashew cookies upstairs that I must make a dent in before tomorrow.

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