A family recipe. Handed down from my grandmother to my father and eventually, after much begging, to me. The same mustard yellow 4×6, creased and ripped, touched by every member of our family. Cut haphazardly from an old cardboard box.
The Goldilocks Family Shortbread Secret Recipe.
I’d share specifics with you, but I’d have to kill you. You’ll just have to imagine all those times gathered in your kitchen around the oven, impatiently waiting for the timer to ring. A child-like impatience that follows you around, even now. No, I can’t tell you ingredient quantities, or how vigorous you have to mix it for the perfect pebbles.
Just know that they are the best damn golden-white cookies you would ever have. Sprinkled with red or green, or perhaps dotted with maraschino cherries soaked in syrup, baked with the calculated warm embrace of tradition and love.
Butter that is kneaded with hands pumped with Scottish blood. Powder white pureness perfectly measured. Baking soda that feels like what nails on a chalkboard sounds like. Dough that tastes nothing like the finished product but ends, inevitably, in your mouth.
Waiting and waiting and waiting.
Crumbling under your fingers, burning on your lips, sweetness on your tongue.
Every so often one of my professors challenges us to a two-minute exercise. She picks the subjects, and we feverishly scribble (literally) into our notebooks. I love them. I love what flows from the corners of my brain when I’m so unexpecting. This will be a collection of all the surprises I get from my Friday at noon class. Truley unorganized, and definetly frivolous.