Over the weekend, we engaged in some “advanced baking.” At least that’s what my husband has dubbed it. We plunged into the unknown and, using an unvetted recipe, tried to recreate the exact cookies Mr C remembers his grandmother making when he was a kid.
The recipe (which his mother provided) produced a dough that was challengingly delicate. In the end, though, we managed to produce some two dozen cut-out cookies, rolling out the chilled dough with a lot of flour. It was an exercise in perseverance, culminating in a strangely strong satisfaction and triumph.
Fragile are the connections that link us to the past and the generations. The cookie tins that we count on to connect us with our sisters and mothers across the miles. Yet the meaning of love resides in such details, in trivialities at once precious and urgent.
PS No, my friends; Celia is not about to morph into a kitchen blog.