Sarah Kieffer - 100 Cookies

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my dad, Lynn Hesse, who always supported me in every hobby and endeavorwhether it was microscopes, guitars, Shakespeare, photography, or baking. He always made sure I had some kind of access to my interests, at whatever cost to himself, and taught me to always work hard and follow through.

Text and photographs 2020 by Sarah Kieffer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

ISBN 9781452180854 (epub, mobi)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kieffer, Sarah, author.
Title: 100 cookies : the baking book for every kitchen with classic cookies, novel treats, brownies, bars, and more / Sarah Kieffer.
Other titles: One hundred cookies
Description: San Francisco : Chronicle Books, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: A cookbook of perfect weeknight baking projects: 100 delicious cookies Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019051308 | ISBN 9781452180731 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Cookies. | LCGFT: Cookbooks.
Classification: LCC TX772 .K536 2020 | DDC 641.86/54dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019051308.

Prop and food styling by Sarah Kieffer.

Design by Lizzie Vaughan.

Typesetting by Katy Brown.

Typeset in Intervogue.

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When I was fourteen years old, I embarked on what is now known in my family as the cookie years. Each day Id step off a hot school bus, walk a half block to my back door, throw my book bag somewhere in the kitchen, and get to work: mixing, whisking, and baking until my mom took over the kitchen so she could get dinner started. The story I told my mom about my afternoon baking compulsion was that I was setting out to make the perfect, quintessential cookie, but really the whole project started as an excuse to eat cookie dough.

Initially, my mom was dubious about the whole affair, as day after day dozens of cookies covered our countertop. Ninth grade was one of those yearsthe textbook story of a young girl in the awkward transition to womanhood. After dinner I would head to my room, recording tear-stained journal entries with an overarching junior high theme known to many: I felt like I just didnt fit anywhere. I never shared those tears with my mom, but maybe she could sense I needed an emotional outlet because she let me keep baking. Or maybe it was because I was so engaged with mixing and stirring that I didnt have time to fight with my sister or tease my brother. Or, just maybe, deep down inside, her motherly instincts whispered to her, and she saw something greater in me than I saw in myself.

I worked my way through our three cookbooks: The Mount-Hope Redemption Church Cookbook, Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook (the classic 1976 edition), and the Betty Crocker Junior Cookbook. Day after day I tried out recipes, experimented with recipes, and crossed out recipes that failed me. I found myself intrigued more with the process than the outcome. If I had discovered Shakespeare at this point, his words would have rang true: Things won are done; joys soul lies in the doing.

While I had eventually developed a repertoire of recipes, my chocolate chip cookies received the most acclaim; they were made with shortening and a little butter, extra vanilla, and a sprinkling of chocolate chips throughout the batter. I passed them out to neighbors, sent them home with my grandma, and ate more than my share. I was pleased with the cookies, but also all my hard work that went into them. I felt content with the process of taking initiative, setting out to do something, and keeping at it even when it wasnt working, or I was tired of it.

My obsessive cookie-baking phase ended, fading away when summer came and I had to find employment; college wouldnt pay for itself. High school passed and I barely spent time in the kitchen. I never took time to learn how to cook for myself, or bake anything other than cookies and chocolate cakes from boxes. The passion that had stirred in my heart lay dormant. Occasionally, there would be a need to bake: cookies at holidays, or birthday cakes for friends. I would remember for a moment, when my hands patted dough and rolled it thin, the beauty of the color of sugar and butter and eggs combined, and the pleasure of watching the dough become a perfect rectangle on the counter. There was the thrill of peeking in the oven window, watching a cake rise and take shape before my eyes. With my feet firm on the kitchen floor and my belly nestled against the counter as I stirred and whisked, I felt grounded. Through these fleeting moments, the kitchen gods were pacing above, sending messages to me on the wind. I kept missing them; they were faint whispers, floating past me and through me, and then astray. Prophesy to the wind, and the wind only, for only the wind will listen, T. S. Eliot lamented. (Four Quartets and "Ash Wednesday" wouldnt find their way to me, either, until years later.)

A cookie , Avis told her children, is a soul. She held up the wafer, its edges shimmering with ruby-dark sugar. You think it looks like a tiny thing, right? Just a little nothing. But then you take a bite.

Diana Abu-Jaber, Birds of Paradise

My high school years ended, and I headed off to Winona State University, certain my future was in teaching English or writing poetry. I found myself working at the Blue Heron Coffeehouse, owned by Larry and Colleen Wolner, where I was hired as a barista for a few evenings and weekend days. I didnt know what I was walking in to; I had no idea this little shop with no air conditioning in the kitchen and limited counter space would be a refuge and light to me. Here was a safe space to learn and fail, a place to laugh and cry and spend long hours. Here was a place to study and hide and drink so much coffee. When I walked through the doors my first night of work, I still didnt hear the gods. But looking back, Im sure their trumpets were blaring.