This past week I’ve been teaching a holiday gifts class at The Pantry, a cooking school here in Seattle. We’ve been spending each evening making butterscotch pudding, pâtes de fruit, fig and almond crackers and chocolate ginger cookies — and while I’ve loved getting back in front of students again, I think my favorite part has been the very beginning where we introduce ourselves and share one holiday treat we like to make or eat: the room buzzes with talk of spiced pfeffernüsse, buttery cashew toffee and boozy rum balls. Growing up, my mom made Baked Alaska for dessert every Christmas Eve and I grew so accustomed to it that I was surprised when I went away to college and learned that no one had really heard of it. In fact, when my new boyfriend (now husband) Sam joined us a handful of years ago, he seemed utterly baffled by the meringue-topped boob of an ice cream dessert that we’d pour cognac over and light on fire. But it was always my mom’s thing (and until tonight, when I asked her about why she began making it, I hadn’t realized that it was also my grandma Marge’s thing).
Zeke, my mom’s former handyman (he passed away a few years back), would always bring over a cookie plate filled with truly awful cookies, but he decorated them himself with colorful sprinkles and included a few dog bones, and the gesture felt quite grand for a man in his 80’s. Sam’s mom makes these fragrant buttery cookies called Nutmeg Logs that we’ve started to bake as well, and our friend Molly often brings by a tin she and her mom make each year that includes peppermint bark and a jammy sandwich cookie. Maybe your family’s thing was something you really loved, and maybe it wasn’t — it seems that part isn’t as important as the fact that it happened. And continued to happen. There’s such a comfort in that repetition, and today those things that help ground us feel more important than ever.
Oliver was just a little over a month old when last Christmas rolled around so I gave myself a big ol’ pass on pretty much everything, but this year I’m feeling a bit anxious about the fact that we don’t really have our thing. The weekend after Thanksgiving, Sam and I had a talk and he reminded me that traditions often come about by accident — they’re so often not the things you plan for, but the things that end up happening for one reason or another … and you end up keeping them around. Like how we always go to Ivar’s after we pick out our tree each year for fish and chips. Not because they’re particularly famous or something either of our families ever did – but more that one year we were particularly cold and hungry after getting the tree tied to the car and Ivar’s was right next door, beckoning us with the promise of hot chowder, halibut and those blessed, very hot “chips.”
Sam stood and rocked our two-week old Oliver for the duration of last year’s ritual Ivar’s visit, both of us holding our breath, ready to take our food to-go and bolt at any moment should he freak (he didn’t, and we felt on top of the world that we survived our first restaurant meal with him). This year, Oliver sat proudly in a high chair in the sweater I bought him for his first birthday, eating French fries and tartar sauce like it was his job.
So while I still don’t know how to cook a turkey, don’t necessarily have a cookie I’m particularly famous for, or any idea what to make for Christmas Eve dinner, I’m trying to encourage myself just to settle into it all. To let it happen to us, and trust that a few cookies, treats, and traditions will rise to the surface in their own time. Like the fish and chips. Or maybe even these reimagined thumbprint cookies we’ve been pretty fond of.
In many ways I’m a bit of a thumbprint purist, often overriding my preference for baking with whole grain flours (except when it comes to these buckwheat beauties) for the Ina recipe, super buttery cookies rolled in sweet coconut and finished with a generous dollop of sweet jam. And while I love Ina’s cookies, I’ve been tinkering with a thumbprint made with chocolate and rye flour, filled with a dark chocolate ganache. Oh, and a sprinkle of flaky salt at the very end.
The earthy flavor of Bob’s Red Mill dark rye flour pairs so well with chocolate (I also love it with apple and pear desserts), making for one soft, slightly crumbly cookie with that addictive chocolate/salt thing going on that I can’t seem to quit. Really, that’s the only nudge I need to bake another batch. And eventually another. I guess that’s how these traditions take hold, yes?
A few brief notes: if you don’t have rye flour, these are really forgiving cookies so you can make them with whole wheat flour, spelt flour, kamut or buckwheat flour. I haven’t tried them with many gluten-free flours and that’s not necessarily my area of expertise, but I’d love to hear about any experiments or blends you end up making.
These holiday cookies are less sweet that a traditional thumbprint cookie, relying on a dark chocolate ganache filling instead of the more traditional sweet jellies or jam. They’re soft and slightly crumbly in texture, which I love in a good snacking or tea cookie. Turbinado sugar is chunkier than granulated sugar and won’t melt down in the same way — so it helps make the edges of these cookies look slightly sparkly – most appropriate for the season. If you have sanding sugar at home, that would work great to roll the cookies in as well (just don’t use it in the actual dough).
For the Cookies:
For the Chocolate Ganache:
In a small heavy-bottomed pot over low heat (or in a microwave-safe bowl in the microwave), melt the dark chocolate, stirring often to avoid burning. Whisk until smooth and set aside.
In a small mixing bowl, whisk together both flours, cocoa powder and salt.
In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar on medium speed until pale and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the egg yolk and vanilla and beat a few times to combine. Scrape in the melted chocolate and beat until just incorporated. Slowly beat in the flour mixture until just combined. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate until firm, about 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 350 F. Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper. Get a little bowl ready with extra turbinado sugar to roll the cookies in. Form balls using 1 tablespoon of dough for each, and roll in sugar. Place balls 1 inch apart on prepared baking sheet.
Use your thumb to press gently into the center of each cookie to create an indentation – be careful not to press all the way through the cookie and be sure the indentation is wide enough to hold the filling. The cookies may crack a little on the sides and that’s ok – that gives them character. If they crack significantly, I do a little quick push / pat back together.
Bake for 10 minutes, remove from oven and use your finger or the tip of a wooden spoon to reinforce the indentation if it’s started to puff back up in the baking process. Then place back in oven and bake until cookies are just set, about 8-9 minutes (they will still feel soft; they’ll firm up as they cool). Allow cookies to cool on baking sheets for 5 minutes. Transfer to wire racks to cool completely.
Meanwhile, make the chocolate ganache: In a heatproof bowl set over a pan of barely simmering water, melt the chocolate with the cream, stirring until smooth. Stir in the vanilla extract. Let cool until the mixture is thick and spoonable, like pudding, about 15 minutes. Gently spoon chocolate filling into the center of each cookie. Let stand until set, about 55 minutes. Sprinkle a pinch of flaky salt across the tops of each cookie. Cookies can be stored in an airtight container for up to 5 days.
Winter Comfort Food
I intended on baking holiday cookies to share with you today, but when I sat down to brainstorm all I could think about, truly, was the morning porridge I've been making and how that's really what I wanted to send you away with. The holiday season always seems to zoom on by at its own clip with little regard for how most of us wish it would just slow down, and this year feels like no exception. We got our tree last week and I've been making a point to sit in the living room and admire the twinkle as much as possible. I have lofty goals of snowflakes and gingerbread men and stringing cranberries and popcorn, but I'm also trying to get comfortable with the fact that everything may not get done, and that sitting amongst the twinkle is really the most important. That and a warm breakfast before the day spins into gear. This multi-grain porridge has proved to be a saving grace on busy weekday mornings, and it reheats beautifully so I've been making a big pot and bringing it to work with some extra chopped almonds and fresh pomegranate seeds. While cookies are certainly on the horizon, I think I'll have this recipe to thank for getting us through the busy days ahead.
We returned home from San Francisco on New Years Eve just in time for dinner, and craving greens -- or anything other than baked goods and pizza (ohhhh San Francisco, how I love your bakeries. And citrus. And winter sunshine). Instead of driving straight home, we stopped at our co-op where I ran in for some arugula, an avocado, a bottle of Prosecco, and for the checkout guys to not-so-subtly mock the outlook of our New Years Eve: rousing party, eh? They looked to be in their mid-twenties and I figured I probably looked ancient to them, sad even. But really, there wasn't much sad (or rousing, to be fair) about our evening: putting Oliver to bed, opening up holiday cards and hanging them in the kitchen, and toasting the New Year with arugula, half a quesadilla and sparkling wine. It wasn't lavish. But it's what we both needed. (Or at least what we had to work with.) Since then, I've been more inspired to cook lots of "real" food versus all of the treats and appetizers and snacks the holidays always bring on. I made Julia Turshen's curried red lentils for the millionth time, a wintry whole grain salad with tuna and fennel, roasted potatoes, and this simple green minestrone that I've taken for lunch this week. Determined to fit as many seasonal vegetables into a bowl as humanly possible, I spooned a colorful pesto on top, as much for the reminder of warmer days to come as for the accent in the soup (and for the enjoyment later of slathering the leftover pesto on crusty bread).
If I asked you about what you like to cook at home when the week gets busy, I'm willing to bet it might be something simple. While there are countless websites and blogs and innumerable resources to find any kind of recipe we may crave, it's often the simple, repetitive dishes that we've either grown up with or come to love that call to us when cooking (or life in general) seems overwhelming or when we're feeling depleted. While my go-to is typically breakfast burritos or whole grain bowls, this Curried Cauliflower Couscous with Chickpeas and Chard would make one very fine, very doable house meal on rotation. The adaptations are endless, and its made from largely pantry ingredients. I never thought I'd hop on the cauliflower "rice" bandwagon, but I have to say after making it a few times, I get the hype.
People describe raising young kids as a particular season in life. I hadn't heard this until we had a baby, but it brought me a lot of comfort when I'd start to let my mind wander, late at night between feedings, to fears that we'd never travel internationally again or have a sit-down meal in our dining room. Would I ever eat a cardamom bun in Sweden? Soak in Iceland? I loved the heck out of our tiny Oliver, but man what had we done?! Friends would swoop in and reassure us that this was just a season, a blip in the big picture of it all. They promised we'd likely not even remember walking around the house in circles singing made-up songs while eating freezer burritos at odd hours of the day (or night). And it's true.
Oliver is turning two next month, and those all-encompassing baby days feel like a different time, a different Us. In many ways, dare I say it, Toddlerhood actually feels a bit harder. Lately Oliver has become extremely opinionated about what he will and will not wear -- and he enforces these opinions with fervor. Don't get near the kid with a button-down shirt. This week at least. He's obsessed with his rain boots and if it were up to him, he'd keep them on at all times, especially during meals. He insists on ketchup with everything (I created a damn monster), has learned the word "trash" and insists on throwing found items away on his own that really, truly are not trash. I came to pick him up from daycare the other day and he was randomly wearing a bike helmet -- his teacher mentioned he'd had it on most of the day and really, really didn't want to take it off. The kid has FEELINGS. I love that about him, and wouldn't want it any other way. But, man it's also exhausting.
It's been a uniformly gray and rainy week in Seattle, and I'd planned on making a big pot of salmon chowder to have for the weekend, but then the new issue of Bon Appetit landed on my doorstep with that inviting "Pies for Dinner" cover, and I started to think about how long it's been since I made my very favorite recipe from my cookbook, Whole Grain Mornings. I'm often asked at book events which recipe I love most, and it's a tough one to answer because I have favorites for different moods or occasions, but I'd say that this savory tart is right up there. The cornmeal millet crust is one of my party tricks; when we need a quick brunch recipe, this is what I pull out of my back pocket because it's so simple and delicious. This is a no-roll, no fuss crust with a slightly sandy, crumbly texture thanks to the cornmeal, and a delightful crunch from the millet. In the past, I've used the crust and custard recipe as the base for any number of fillings: on The Kitchn last year, I did a version with greens and gruyere, and I teach cooking classes that often include a version heavy on local mushrooms and shallot. So if you are not keen on salmon or have some vegetables you're looking to use up this week, feel free to fold in whatever is inspiring you right now. Sometimes at this point in winter that can be hard, so hopefully this recipe may help a little.