This post is a plug for a wonderful project my dear friend Amanda is working on as part of the Brooklyn Utopias exhibition, opening tomorrow night at The Brooklyn Historical Society.  It features the recipe for her father’s biscotti, the results of which I have had, and are legendary:

Joe’s Biscotti Recipe is offered as an active and dispersed monument to my father. Recipe cards with my father’s prized biscotti recipe will be available at the exhibition. He took great pride in cooking for his friends and family. It connected him to his Italian heritage and allowed him to express his love for those around him. This August 2009 marks the five year anniversary of my father’s passing.

In addition to being an offering, I would like Joe’s Biscotti Recipe to also act as a catalyst for the reciprocal exchange of meaningful recipes. If you have a recipe that connects you to people and/or places that are no longer with you physically, I’d love to host it on my site. I’ll make sure the biscotti recipe is available there as soon as the exhibition opens on October 2nd.

As the online collection of recipes grows, the site will serve to give form to the recipes and people that connect us to our social histories. Keeping these recipes and cultures alive today tactically ensures that they will be a part of our futures.

Send your recipes, stories, photos, and scans and let me know if it is okay to post them: acurrerib@gmail.com. Visit the exhibition for actual recipe cards.

A print version of the online cookbook will be produced in January 2010 with the closing of the exhibition. All contributors will receive a copy.

I hope you’ll try the recipe on the project’s website (http://www.joesbiscottirecipe.blogspot.com/), and take the time to contribute something of your own. Amanda is an amazing, inspiring cook, something she clearly learned from her dad. She is also a rad artist, and it will be great to see how this cookbook takes shape.

So.  Do you like sauerkraut?  I mean — have you given homemade sauerkraut a chance in your adult life?

I was reintroduced to the stuff when I lived with a roommate in Boston who was, according to a friend, “like a Level 10 vegan.”  Vegan roommate, an excellent cook, used to pack red cabbage in jars and let them ferment in a cabinet, adding the finished product to sandwiches and rice dinners and other things.  It was good sauerkraut, not creepy like the unmonitored vats at a hot dog stand, and I could see that it was very easy to make.  (It is easy on the level of doing your own laundry.)

Not long after I found a terrific fanzine called Wild Fermentation that teaches one how to make their own sauerkraut.  It also teaches one how to make cheese, or tempeh, or tej or yogurt or pickles and other fermented foods.  It has since been turned into a book but you can still find the stunningly simple recipe for sauerkraut here. Thank you, Sandor Ellix Katz, a.k.a. Sandor Kraut, for making your passion so accessible to us.

This most recent batch of sauerkraut gets a shout-out to Currant Ridge Cabins in McCarthy, Alaska, since the cabbages I used came from the proprieters’ garden. (It was a fantastic garden busting with vegetables grown under the 24-hour sun. The cauliflower was the sweetest, tenderest cauliflower I have ever laid lips on.  Lots of examples of what vegetables aspire to be.)  Main point here is that I lugged two heads of cabbage home with me to San Francisco so that I could make them into kraut. They were the heaviest part of my pack on the return trip, but totally worth it.

Something else exciting (to me, at least) about this kraut-batch has to do with the crock I found for making it at a Chinese import store. The crock fits one head of chopped packed cabbage perfectly, and it comes with three lids! The innermost one for pressing, and the outer two for odor blockage and dust stopping and overall good looks. It has the appearance of an average kitchen crock, and yet it behaves as though it was designed just for this task. It is so pleasing to find the right tool for a job.

The caraway batch pictured above hasn’t been heat-processed — it just stays in the fridge, since I am into probiotics.  Don’t you think the above picture looks kind of brain-y?  Like the jars are packed with pickled brains?

Well.  Next batch will be with arame and dried chiles. I will let you know how it turns out. I am thinking it will be awesome.

This recipe, however, is not for sauerkraut — I will leave that task to Sandor. (It’s easy, you can do it!  Come back in a week and a half, and you’ll be set.)  Here we have a “recipe” for my favorite form of bachelorette food that involves sauerkraut, for when you are feeling sort of lazy and you want to eat something that is snacklike in front of the television. It’s kind of like onigiri. Or a seaweed taco! And you can eat your fill without feeling like dying on the couch afterwards.

What you’ll have on hand for Bachelorette Snack #1:
Cooked brown rice, with vinegar if you like
Sauerkraut
A packet of Nori (my friend’s young daughter calls this “mermaid paper”. I have grown fond of the salted Korean kind of mermaid paper)
Sriracha
Possibly:
Sliced hard-boiled eggs OR egg-fried rice
Avocado slices
Grilled sweet potato fingers
Pickles
Gomasio or Furikake

Rip off a section of nori and put it in the palm of your hand. Spoon some rice on top, then the sauerkraut and other toppings, add a few dabs of Sriracha, and wrap. Eat. Repeat.

A half or whole Nori packet’s worth of snacks, until you are full

Also I’d like to point out a shift in my subscription services, which’ll now be hosted by FeedBurner instead of WordPress.  I’d like to gently urge all my kind subscribers, old and new, to sign up for email or RSS updates via the links on that right hand column over there.

I’m having some change-in-site-design feelings, and decided to switch to this very minimal theme until I can manufacture the appearance of my dreams.  ‘Til then I’ll be hanging loose, posting new stuff and updating old recipes with pictures.  Pictures!

It is called “Buttermilk Country Cake” and I am positive it is from a Maida Heatter-influenced cookbook.  I made a Pear Upside-Down Cake using an actual Maida Heatter buttermilk cake recipe for a dinner party in Alaska, and it was just not the same.  For starts, the M. H. version was enormous in comparison, like double-size the progeny’s version, and for seconds, it was a bit drier and tougher (though for that I’ll point to my probable overbeating of batter.  M. H. is not to be messed with).  The recipe I have for you here is moist-er than the popular Gourmet Magazine buttermilk cake recipe floating about online.  For me, it is just right.

This is the kind of cake that can sit around for a week and still be good, or that you can cut a big hunking wedge from to wrap and eat on a trip someplace, the experience of which may give you very romantic feelings of being a character in a pre-modern novel.  Another terrific feature of this cake is that it is a good treatment for fruit that has just slipped over the edge of ripeness (if you are anything like me, overripe fruit is not something that can eaten without treatment).  You could certainly swap in another fruit of your choosing.

What I also like about this cake is that the pears acquire a really lovely pink tinge to them after baking.  To my mind there is something kissable about the simple appearance and fragrance of it right after it has been flipped and the first warm slice has been cut, something along the lines of a night light or a glass of milk.  In fact, it would probably go well with both of those things — just be careful not to lose any crumbs in the bedsheets.

Some fruit, preferably pears
4 large egg yolks
2/3 cup buttermilk (you can fake this with 1 part milk to 2 parts plain yogurt)
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla
2 cups sifted AP flour
1 cup sugar
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. ground cardamom
8 Tbsp. soft unsalted butter, cut into chunks

If you have a 9″ springform pan, that is ideal. If not, a 9″ cake pan will do. Butter your pan well, both bottom and sides.

Take a quantity of overripe pears — Bartlett, Bosc, any variety will do — and peel, core, and slice them. Arrange them in the bottom of your pan. If you like to be fancy about it you can spiral them or spell out someone’s name or somesuch, or if you’re not feeling like it, you can just dump them in.

Preheat your oven to 350. In a bowl, combine the yolks, about a quarter of the buttermilk (don’t fuss here; just add a few spoonfuls to the mix), and the vanilla. In a larger bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients.

In the large bowl containing the dry ingredients, add the butter and the remaining bit of buttermilk and beat until just combined. Then add the egg mixture in 3 parts until just combined.

Pour & smooth into the pan over the pears. Pop into the oven and bake 30 to 40 minutes or until a toothpick stuck in the middle comes out clean. Let cool; if you are using the springform, remove the sides; strategically place your serving plate on top and 1-2-3 flip. Gently remove the pan and patch up the stuck fruity parts if there are any.

Makes one 9″ cake

About an hour after arriving in Valdez, and less than 24 hours after arriving in Alaska, I received an invitation to spend the night on a fishing boat in Prince William Sound. My dear friend Sandra, on hiatus from the Harvard Peabody Museum, has been spending her summer working at the Valdez Museum and I took her up on the offer to visit. She’d borrowed a minivan from her friend Neal to pick me up in Anchorage, where my flight got in at eleven-thirty at night.  Upon arrival I noticed the visible station of the sun and a quantity of handsomely taxidermied animals positioned about the airport, and felt certain that I’d landed in a different place.

Sandra was a familiar sight, though, and we headed off into the semi-darkness to park and sleep by the side of the road in the back of the van. S. said she had spied a nice spot next to a lake on the route to Anchorage and we were going to find it. This took about 3 hours, after which point we were very tired and went to sleep straightaway and woke up brightly the next morning to continue our 300-mile drive. We stopped at a few diners on the way and for some reason I became enamored with the idea of eating cherry pie every day of my trip, which, though probably fueled by the context of romantic Northwestern scenery, did not actually last long in practice (to my chagrin! I love cherry pie). I knew S. was staying in a nice house for the summer, and I even had fantasies of making a cherry pie there. Cherries in Alaska? Sure! I could find them somewhere… right?

After lots of lovely driving on the scenic Glenn Highway (and listening to to a flabby but weirdly familiar-sounding CD that we could not figure out how to extract and turned out to be Greatest Hits: Simply Red), we arrived in the port town of Valdez. Yes, that Valdez. I put down my bags and S. called Neal to thank him for the use of his van. Then Neal extended the offer to join him on his fishing boat for the night as he towed a smaller craft down to Ellemar.

Neil’s boat is named the Tempest, a wooden boat built in 1964 in Seattle that had been living in Valdez for about 20 years. I think I will say straightoff here that I know nothing about boats and have little interest in them in general, but I very much appreciate taking trips on them and the hard work their captains do for us landlubbers. This boat had a top floor and a bottom floor, a red paint job plus a yellow racing stripe, two johns, six bunks, a sink and stove, a light-up plastic palm tree in the back and two fishing chests used as hot tubs.

We were joined on our journey to Ellemar by Neal’s young cousin and his cousin’s girlfriend, who were really into fishing. (I guess I’m not so into that either.) So there was lots of talk about halibut, and the salmon runs (which were very poor this season), and black cod and jellyfish and other hook-accessible things of the sea. Neil brought up his oyster traps, and S. became very interested in getting a hold of their contents, making Neal promise to take us to the pilings in Ellemar the next morning.

The next day we ride out to the pilings in a small boat and carry a large netted bag back to the dock, where we dump out its contents and start sorting and cleaning. In addition to oysters we unearthed (unwatered?) some starfish, tiny shrimps, a sea star and lots of mysterious-looking slug and millipede-like things. We took about 18 of the biggest and cleaned them and ate a few right there on the boat. The rest we took back to Valdez in a cooler filled with glacier ice, and at some juncture I decided to make an oyster pie, which I had never done, but it seemed a fun thing to do with the very big ones that you’d gag on if you tried to eat raw, plus it scratched the whole pie itch.

We did not have an oyster knife back at home, and although S.’s friend Douglas swore that they could be opened with a butter knife, I did not have the muscle for it. Instead, he suggested roasting them on the gas barbeque outside, which would cause them to open wide enough for prying. So that is what I did. I used the following recipe, which is adapted from “Fraunces’ Oyster Pie”, found in The Thirteen Colonies Cookbook, and I made three smaller pocket pies out of dough for one 9″ double-crust pie. So it’s New-England-flavored made with Alaska-grown oysters, and it is really good, if you are into this sort of thing. It tastes like seafood, make no mistake.

1 large onion, chopped rather fine
1 rib celery, chopped rather fine
1/4 tsp. mace or allspice
1/4 tsp. dried thyme
10-12 fresh oysters, liquid strained & reserved
3 Tbsp. AP flour
3 Tbsp. butter
1 cup milk
2 Tbsp. fresh parsley, chopped fine
1/2 cup aforementioned oyster liquid
Liquid for consistency, such as broth or wine
Enough dough for a 9″ double crust pie
1 egg, beaten

Make the dough and split into 3 equal portions; roll out on sheets of parchment or wax paper and keep in the fridge.  If you are making a 9″ pie, pre-bake the bottom crust, weighted, in a hot oven and set aside.

Heat a few tablespoons of butter in a large pan and add the onions, celery, mace, & thyme, and stir until everything is soft and becoming golden. (You can also use lardons here instead of butter for the sautéing.) Make a white sauce with the flour, butter, milk, and oyster liquid quantities listed above. Add your oysters. (If they are very large, you may choose to split them.) If they are raw, cook until the edges curl. Add your liquid and stir until the mixture is at a nice, pie-interior-like consistency. Add salt, pepper, and check the seasoning; add parsley and stir.

If you are making a 9″ pie, add the filling, then lay on the top, crimp, and vent; if you are making pocket pies, position the dough on a cookie sheet and fill with a few tablespoons — be careful not to overfill! — brush edges with egg, fold, crimp, and vent.

Bake in a 400° oven, about 20-25 minutes (or less for the pocket pies). Remove from oven when the crust looks good and golden. Serve the 9″ pie with a spoon (not a slice), or wrap the pocket pie in foil and take down to the water to eat on the dock for lunch.

Makes 1 9″ pie or 3 pasty-sized pocket pies

Hmm. Enough of this critical foofery for the time being. I just spent last night on a boat! And in a day or two, I’ll have a groovy recipe for some of the fruits de la mer we collected whilst sailing the seas of Our Great 49th State.

Postscript 8/29/09:  It was a very hot day today for San Francisco, and I was walking from one cool covered place to another when I found The Way of a Pilgrim propped up against a drainpipe not too far from the corner of 23rd & Folsom.  A funny coincidence, that this little brown book should find its way into my hands less than a month after re-reading F & Z.

Annnd… beans and rice for the week. What you have heard about Rancho Gordo beans is true: they are amazing, creamy, pillowy, luscious bits of beany perfection. Seriously, the beans you have probably been eating thus far in your life are hardly beans at all when compared to these guys. These beans will blow the minds of people who don’t like beans! I feel especially lucky since I can buy them in bulk at Rainbow, but for those of you who can’t access that co-op or the Ferry Building Farmer’s Market, do buy them online. WORTH IT.

Last night’s beans were Christmas Lima Beans soaked & cooked with brown rice in a mirepoix. Simple and spot-on. I also have the Vaqueros and Santa Maria Pinquitos to try later this week, and have a vision of wrapping up roasted chiles, nopales, tomatoes, onions, and cumin seeds with some epazote-seasoned beans in a tortilla or two. It’s great to feel back into my food after having been out of it for a few weeks.

I wanted to use that basil ASAP.  I don’t buy basil, since it usually comes in huge quantities that languish in my crisper long after I use what I need, and this bunch was too good to go to waste.  And the potatoes — am I really in the mood for potatoes?  Somehow my brains came up with the terrific idea of a cold potato salad with basil pesto called I Can’t Believe It’s Not Gnocchi.  Because, like, you know, gnocchi are made with potatoes?  And this is just like gnocchi, only way simpler and, um, not like gnocchi at all?  Well, it’s still really good.  I bet Fabio would endorse it.

ICBING was served as part of a composed salad plate which included sliced cucumbers, plain yogurt, pickled onions (who knew they were so easy to make?!?  I do, now, and am excited since they are one of my favorite pickled things), sliced silken tofu with sesame seeds, and a handful of those Pimiento peppers pan-roasted and dipped in salt.  This was all very light and satisfying, and could only have been improved by the addition of crackers, I think.  Along with this plate we enjoyed sparkling water, cold sake, and the spangled sounds of Omar Souleyman.  Thursday nights should always be so DELICIOUS.

1 large bunch basil (Genovese or Sweet)
2 lbs. potatoes
2 Tbsp. olive oil
4 cloves garlic, in their husks
2 tsp. salt
3/4 cup fresh grated Parmesan cheese
Pine nuts, toasted, if you want ‘em
More olive oil

Remove basil leaves from stalks and rinse the former in a colander. Peel the potatoes and cube.

Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a sturdy frying pan. Add potatoes and salt and cloves of garlic and stir until coated with oil. Fry until there is some browning, scraping the bottom of the pan with a pancake turner so the starchy deposits don’t burn. Turn heat down to low and cover, stirring and cooking until tender but not falling apart. When this has been accomplished, immediately turn off the heat and deposit the potatoes in a bowl to cool.

Cull the garlic from the potatoes and remove the husks. Put the basil leaves and garlic and optional nuts into a food processor dosed with some good olive oil and chop ’til the leaves are as fine as possible. Take the mixture out, add the cheese, and chop chop chop until the mix is fine and/or you are tired of chopping. Let it be supple and firm, not runny with oil. Toss the pesto with the potatoes and refrigerate until cool.

Serves 4

Today I’d like to tell you about the summer I taught myself how to make pies in the President’s kitchen.  By “President” I mean President of Sarah Lawrence College, and by “summer” I mean the summer of 1999, which I spent living on campus and working at the school’s alumni office. It was through cat-sitting for my philosophy professor that I was connected to cat-sitting for the president, who had just started her tenure at the school and had taken two months out of the summer to be somewhere else (where, I really don’t remember; sadly, I don’t really remember her cats, either, although I seem to recall that they were fluffy).

I was housed, along with the rest of the student summer workers, on an area of campus known as Slonim Woods. Ten of these dorm units were constructed in the late 70s, each with seven to eight tiny bedrooms and a voluminous common kitchen/living area, which I’d heard was designed so that students would basically be forced to “commune”. (I could really go on at length here about the dorms at Sarah Lawrence, but I’ll spare you that epic digression. Perhaps it’s worth noting that all dorms save one or two were co-ed, and nearly all were multi-use.) Regardless of what Slonim was like during the school year, Slonim during the summer was fun. No classes and an essentially empty campus! Hot, lush weather to sweat through! And more “breaking the bubble” between encapsulated campus life and the broader cultural mélange of thrill-filled Westchester county.

My days mostly consisted of sifting through alumni archives, pulling out “important” material to be scanned, and discarding “nonessential data” and duplicates.  This was nice because I got to work in air conditioning, which the dorms did not have, and because I got to listen to music, sometimes of my choosing; it was the summer of Shania Twain’s “That Don’t Impress Me Much“, which I now know too well.  My personal goal for this job was to read Yoko Ono’s file — which, it turned out, had very little information about her short time at Sarah Lawrence.  I’d wanted to see if I could find proof for the rumor that she’d created an endowment for the ice cream supply at Bates cafeteria.  As far as I know, it’s still a lovely legend.

We had kitchens in our communist dorms, but during my cat-sitting stint I decided to use the President’s enormous kitchen, equipped for 100+ person luncheons and dinners, as a lab for pie-making and cable TV-watching.  It was one of those pro-looking deals with long butcher-block tables and several Garland stoves and large black pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, something I found spooky and cartoonish.  I was careful to use and replace every utensil, bowl, and pan exactly as I found it.  It probably wasn’t necessary to be so obsessive, but at the time I was sure I was taking liberties where I shouldn’t.

Making pie crusts with a food processor is a relatively new thrill for me; for most of the last ten years I have made crusts with dinner knives, and this is where I taught myself how. I used Crisco and fruit from the Stop & Shop.  I remember that the pies were pretty good, and that I brought them back to my summer commune of friends, often eating them while sitting in lawn chairs on an outside courtyard, often with bottles of beer that someone of age had procured for the group.

This recipe’s crust involves butter instead of Crisco, and I’m sure I wouldn’t have thought of adding rose geranium to a pie back then, but let’s look at these updates as nuanced improvements.  If there’s a pie crust that’s near and dear to your heart, please feel free employ it here.  My original recipe was from the back of that shortening can.

THE CRUST:
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, very cold and cut into cubes
2 1/2 cups white or white whole wheat flour, all-purpose or pastry
1 tsp. salt
4-6 Tbsp. ice water

Combine the salt and flour in a large bowl. Add the butter cubes and cut them into the flour with two dinner knives in a slicing motion, pulling the blades against one another while scraping the bottom of the bowl. Keep doing this while watching a VH1 Countdown show or Unsolved Mysteries until the bits of butter are very small, no bigger than a tiny pea. If the butter becomes too soft, stick the bowl in the freezer and wait a bit while it cools.

Add water to the mixture one tablespoon at a time, tossing it into the flour with your hand, until the dough starts to come together and you can form a ball. Cover with plastic wrap and let sit in the fridge while you make the filling.

THE FILLING:
6-8 ripe peaches (3-3 1/2 lbs.)
1/4 – 1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons tapioca flour
1 1/2 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
5 whole fresh Rose Geranium leaves
1 1/2 Tbsp. unsalted butter, sliced into thin bits

Peel the skin off of the peaches with a peeler or blanch and peel with your hands. Slice into thin wedges and put into a large bowl. Add the sugar a little at a time, to taste. Add the tapioca, lemon juice, and geranium leaves and leave to rest, 10 minutes at least. Preheat the oven to 400°.

Pull the dough ball from the fridge and cut in half. On a floured surface, roll each half into 12″ rounds, and lay one crust on the bottom of a 9″ pie pan. Slice the other crust into strips if you’re going to make a lattice top.

Remove the geranium leaves from the peach mix and discard. Pour the peaches and juices into the pie pan and distribute the butter bits on top. Wet the edges of the bottom crust and lay on the top crust, pinching or pressing the two halves together with fingers or the tines of a fork. Cut vents in the top if it’s solid. You can do an egg wash/sugar sprinkle here, too, if you like.

Put the pie on a baking sheet, place in the oven, and bake for 30 minutes. Turn the heat down to 375° and cover the edges of the pie with aluminum foil. Bake for another 40 minutes or until the filling is bubbly and the crust is golden. Remove the pie from the oven and let cool before serving.

Makes 1 9″ pie

First, there was the lecture, held in the department’s Howison Library on campus. Wood paneling, wood and leather chairs, long tables, leather-bound volumes and portraits of ancient academics set the endearingly shabby scene for Johnathan Lear’s presentation on “Irony and Identity”. Shall I recapitulate the arguments? No! I confess my attention drifted from the speaker to the dress of the attendees (nondescript) to the printed signage instructing patrons on how to use the photocopy machine, and back again.  Did I enjoy it, even understand what was being discussed?  Yes!  Ducks were actually employed in part of Lear’s argument, which pleased me very much.

To the point: at the end of the lecture, the facilitator invited us into an adjacent lounge for “coffee and cookies”. How delightful! And indeed, cookies there were – six or seven different varieties whisked in from some fantasy bakery of deliciousness. I kid you not, the cookies were all very good. Lemon sandwich cookies, dressy chocolate chip, some sort of intense fudgelike concoction, and square-shaped mint-flecked sugar cookies. All so very tasty.

After our cookies and coffee, we returned to the library for questions and discussion. Many professorial types (they probably were professors, but I really can’t say) and earnest students worked things out. Then the facilitator invited us back into said adjacent lounge for “wine and cheese”. Their events budget must have been recession-proof!

I’d wanted to re-make those mint cookies for Tommy’s going-away party last night, and I did make an attempt — but it was, alas, a fiasco. Never use “Self-Rising Flour” ever, even if it is the only flour available in a kitchen that is not yours which the owners have kindly allowed you to use for cooking experiments — I can’t imagine anything good will come of it. The cookies tasted like they’d taken an aluminum bath. In their stead I brought crème brûlées picked up from SF’s own secret crème brûlée cart guy, who happened to be having a last-ditch crème brûlée event prior to leaving town for several weeks. Vanilla bean, White Russian, Bailey’s, chocolate raspberry truffle — Tommy got one of each.

Today I made those mint cookies again, and they’re much better.  Not quite as I remembered, so they may have to remain a personal Madeleine until I stumble across that bakery.  Tommy, here’s to you.

TO GET:

2 cups white all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
Pinch salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter
3/4 cup granulated white sugar
1/2 cup fresh mint leaves, chopped very fine
1 egg, beaten
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 Tbsp. brandy
1 Tbsp. plain yogurt, buttermilk, or milk

TO DO:
Whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt together; set aside. Cream the butter and sugar. Add the flour mixture and mint and cut together, as you would a pie crust. Combine the egg and remaining liquids in a bowl, and pour into a trough in the dough mixture. Mix this in to the best of your abilities and form into a log; the dough will be crumbly. (I did my best to get the log looking rectangular, but this was not easy.) Wrap and freeze for at least 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 350°. Remove dough from freezer and slice into cookie-sized medallions, no more than 1/4″ thick. Place on a greased cookie sheet and bake for 10 minutes or until just golden around the edges. Remove from the sheet and let cool.

Makes about 1 1/2 dozen cookies