My Cookie Custom

Um, yes. This is me, circa 1991. I was two years old, and obsessed with cookies.

Well, not too much has changed since then. Not really. I think I have a pink hoodie that slightly resembles this one.

Anyway, there's a story my family tells about me that TO THIS DAY I cannot live down. It involves cookies, of course. So, when I was about five years old, my mom and dad took my brother and I to go take pictures with Santa. It was Christmastime, and this was a customary photoshoot in my house. I was never about it, but since I was five, I didn't exactly have free will.

After my brother and I sat on Santa's lap and the picture was snapped (I looked painfully bored, and my brother had red eyes and swollen cheeks from crying--undoubtedly due, of course, to being forced to sit on a strange man's lap), my parents took us around to the little holiday store attached to the Santa photo backdrop. I was walking around, looking at the fake Christmas trees adorned with gaudy ornaments, when I saw them.

The world stopped moving.

Right there, on a china plate, for anyone to grab, was a pile of chocolate chip cookies.

I don't think I ran over to something so quickly in all my life.

I planted myself in front of that plate for a good 10 minutes. It was as long as I could get away with. My dad--who has this all captured on home video--came up behind me, calling my name. I turned around, a cookie in my mouth and one in each hand. He laughs, and tells me to finish up. I proceed to inhale the cookies that remained.

He tells me it's time to go. This does not fly well with me. Mainly because he doesn't allow me to take another cookie.

"Just one more for the road!" I plead, annunciating each word like they're each an individual sentence.

"No!" he says.

This is when I proceed to angrily cross my arms across my chest, mutter a hrumph, and turn away from the camera. I was pissed.

My family thinks this story is hilarious. Personally, I'm sick of it. But it does explain my relationship with cookies.

I love cookies. Love baking, love eating them. With Christmas less than two weeks away, nothing excites me more than the promise of baking all kinds of delicious holiday cookies. There is one cookie, however, that I have perfected into my signature dessert, if you will. It's the classic Tollhouse cookie, and according to my grandfather, no one makes it like I do!

Andrea's (well, kinda) Chocolate Chip Cookies

Ingredients

2 3/4 cups flour

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. salt

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened

3/4 cup granulated sugar

3/4 cup packed brown sugar

1 tsp. vanilla extract

2 large eggs

2 cups Nestle Tollhouse semi-sweet chocolate chips

                Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Combine flour, baking soda, and salt in a bowl, mixing together well with a fork. In a separate bowl, cream the butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar, and vanilla. Slowly add the eggs one at a time. Make sure each egg is completely mixed in before adding the other one. Gradually add the flour, mixing well after each addition, until all flour mixture has been added. Stir in the chocolate chips. Drop tablespoon-sized balls of dough onto an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 9-11 minutes, or until golden brown. Let them cool for two minutes on a wire rack. Enjoy!

A Satisfyingly Sticky Christmas

As a kid, I absolutely loved Christmas: the presents, the decorations, the music, and most importantly, the magic. I was 12 years old before I stopped believing in Santa Claus. This is probably because my parents loved creating a Christmas atmosphere that was special every year. From picking out our Christmas tree and decorating it to the sounds of the season to baking cookies in aprons dusted with flour, I always believed there was something magical about the season. I was as holly and jolly as they came.

Christmas morning was always a highlight. Before my grandmother passed away in 2004, she spent every Christmas Eve night at my house, sleeping over into the morning to watch all the hubub that came with pounds of wrapping paper and squeals of delight. My brothers and I were always wired for sound, far too awake at 7 a.m. for my bleary-eyed parents, who, unbeknown to me at the time, had spent much of the night wrapping presents, taking well-portioned bites out of the cookies I'd leave for Santa, and setting up our living room into a Christmas masterpiece.

Another Christmas masterpiece? My mom's sticky buns, the best Christmas tradition I can think of. They always magically appeared in the oven that morning, filling our house with smells of cinnamon and sugar. A few years ago, I started helping her make the sticky buns (sometimes I even help her start setting up the presents for my little sister, who, at 10, still whole-heartedly believes in Santa). The buns are made the night before and left in the fridge overnight. It's an easy and simple recipe that packs a lot of Christmas punch.

Even at 21, I still believe in the magic of Christmas. These sticky buns are just a physical manifestation of the joy that's wrapped up not just on that morning, but during the entire holiday season.

MOM'S CHRISTMAS STICKY BUNS

Ingredients

2 loaves frozen white bread dough (Rich's makes a great dough--it's what we use), slightly thawed

1 stick of butter, melted

1 large package vanilla pudding (not instant)

2 tbsp milk

1 cup brown sugar

1 tsp cinnamon

1 cup pecans (or walnuts) and raisins

Grease a 13 x 9 pan. Sprinkle bottom with nuts and raisins. Pull thawed bread dough into walnut-sized pieces. Fill pan with a single layer of the dough. Heat together remaining ingredients and pour over the dough. Cover the pan with plastic wrap. Let rise in the refrigerator overnight. Bake at 350 F for 30 minutes. Let stand for 5 minutes, and then invert the sticky buns onto a sheet of foil. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

Here's the Skinny

This book has a double meaning for me.

First of all, it's published by Running Press Book Publishers, a small publishing company based in Philadelphia, PA. From January 2010 to September 2010, I interned there. And loved every second of it. I worked primarily in the children's department, assisting one of the smartest, savviest, most inventive editors I've had the privilege to work for. While the job was, at first, initiation-by-fire, I grew to love my work there. I always knew that I loved books, but I didn't know how much I'd love this industry.

After eight months there, I was convinced that publishing was the right career for me. So, this book represents one of the greatest experiences I've ever had.

But there's more.

Skinny Bitch single-handedly launched my first vegetarian experience. I bought this book for my mom as a birthday present in June. She read it, then left in on my dresser one day.

"I think you should read this," she said. "It might change how you look at food."

I shrugged, picking it up with no hesitation. I wasn't particularly worried that this little book was going to change eating habits 21 years in the making. I was Italian, and therefore a carnivore. I couldn't imagine life without meat. The idea was almost laughable.

Until I read this book. From the second I closed the back cover, I'd sworn off all animal fat. I think I was living under an "ignorance is bliss" veil, knowing there was something wrong with the meat industry, but refusing to look into it further for fear of what that knowledge would bring.

Now I know what I was so afraid of.

I don't think, after reading this book, anyone could run out and eat a hamburger. It's an in-your-face commentary on not only the problems in the meat industry, but the toll eating too much animal fat can have on your health. I'd never even attempted to cut out meat and animal products from my diet before, but this book gave me the motivation to try it.

I couldn't stomach the idea of eating flesh. And that's what the book referred to meat as: flesh. Nothing will turn your insides quite as well as that image. Hearing what these animals go through, how they're treated, is more than enough to stop eating meat out of sheer protest for the cruelty involved in the process. Plus, a diet based more closely on greens and organic products is just healthier.

I was convinced. And I stayed convinced for two months.

I did eventually begin to re-introduce meat into my diet, mainly chicken. I did feel healthier, and I was sleeping better than I had in a while. Like Michael Pollan said in his book The Omnivore's Dilemma, it's not the practice of eating meat that's wrong, but the process. And there are plenty of healthy dishes that include meat.

What did I learn? Well, I have a new appreciation for soy, which I used to substitute meat in a number of dishes that summer. I'm also still very wary of beef. I haven't touched a hot dog in months, and I don't think I will ever again. Even though I love hamburgers and meatballs, I'm still trying to find healthier alternatives, because even though my vegetarian venture is over, what I learned is still fresh in my mind. I'd love to be a vegetarian 24/7, but I don't think I'm cut out to be so strict. Having some meat every now and then isn't bad for me, but I will continue to strive to make it a secondary addition to my diet.

The Skinny Bitch Cookbook is on shelves now--check it out and pick it up! It's on my Christmas list!

Photo courtesy of Google Images.

Waffled Weekends

Growing up, I'd wait for the weekend with bated breath and high expectations. It wasn't because I got a two-day vacation from the monotony that was school, or the fact that I could sleep in past 6 a.m. No, I was psyched for the weekends because I knew I'd wake up Saturday morning to this:

Or this:

There is nothing like the aroma of a fresh, weekend breakfast. For two mornings out of the week, I didn't have to grab a fistful of cereal and a too-ripe banana on my hurriedly destructive way to the bus stop. These mornings, my mom passed the spatula to my dad, who, having been quite the formidable bachelor before he settled down, was the undisputed breakfast king in our house.

I remember thinking of my dad as a spatula master, making pancakes in any shape or size desired. My favorite? The mermaid pancakes he'd flip onto my plastic Ariel plate as I'd patter into the living room and watch the morning cartoons (preferably of the Disney variety).

Tell anyone I still do this today, and I'll deny it.

My mom couldn't quite keep herself away from the kitchen--it was as if the mess my father created called to her. She'd follow behind him, clucking with smothered annoyance as she threw cracked eggshells down the garbage disposal and Windex-ed up spilled maple syrup. 

"Clean up as you go!" she'd admonish him, standing there with her hair going every which way and her glasses perched on her nose.

"It'll get cleaned up, Dina!" he'd exclaim, wiping his hands (which were usually covered in batter) on his flannel, checkered pajama bottoms.

"Ugh, now I have to wash those," my mother would sigh. Then she'd stick out her hand. "Give them to me now. I'll run a wash."

He'd look at her like she just asked him to put his hand in the blender.

"I'm not giving them to you right now!" he'd exclaim, as the eggs he'd abandoned in the pan slowly started to smoke.

"The stain will set!" my mom would whine.

I'd get fresh eggs and an extra pancake, and all was well in my mind. 

There was something reliable about this Saturday morning routine. I always knew what to expect, and the predictability was comforting. I loved waking up to the warm aromas, prickling my nose a little earlier than I'd like, but it would roll me out of bed just the same. While I no longer have my dad around every weekend to flip some flapjacks or griddle up some waffles for me every weekend in my Philadelphia apartment, whenever I go home for the weekend, I insist on my Saturday morning routine.

And he always happily obliges.

Photos courtesy of Google Images.

The Baker's Assistant

When I was a junior in high school, a fresh, young, semi-lazy 16-year-old, my parents decided it was time for me to get a part-time job.

Naturally, I was against the idea. School was keeping me excessively busy. But my parents insisted. It was time I learned a work ethic, they claimed. I didn't have to work a ton of hours, but it might do me some good.

I was stuck. So I consented, not sure what kind of work I'd want to do. It was my mom who suggested The Market at Styer Orchards, a farm market that sat about five minutes from my house. Styer's held fond memories for me--it was where my family and I would pick pumpkins and apples in the fall, get ice cream in the summer, and look for Christmas trees in the winter.

I guess I could work there, I thought. One informal interview later, I had a job. In the bakery. At $5.15 an hour. I thought I was so cool.

My dress code consisted of a black T-shirt underneath a smudged and filthy maroon apron and a truly horrific attractive matching visor. No matter how short my black hair was, they always insisted that I use a million bobby pins to keep it up and above the visor's back rim.

Nevermind that the owner's daughter was allowed to keep her honey blonde, waist-length hair curled softly on her shoulders, maroon visor be damned.

I should have taken this as a sign of things to come.

But regardless of how I may have ended up positively loathing this job, I got to do some pretty awesome stuff along the way. I grew really close to one baker, who let me help ice cakes, fill canolis, and make the famous pies. I probably gained 15 pounds during the year I worked behind the bakery counter. Each employee was entitled to one free apple cider donut (made fresh daily!) a shift, and since outside lunch wasn't allowed on breaks, delicious sandwiches from the deli were an almost-daily indulgence.

Plus, those sugar cookies were so small anyway. Who counted how many times their hand drifted into the case?

I loved scooping ice cream in the summer heat, but hated that no matter how hard the AC was blasting everywhere else in the store, the bakery always stayed roasty-toasty warm, thanks to the massive industrial ovens. I always volunteered to get supplies from the freezer and hang out in the sub-zero temperatures for a few minutes.

While I hated closing the bakery alone, scraping helplessly away at metal bowls the size of my head with day-old hardened plaster cake batter all around the inside, there was something sweet about the atmosphere (no pun intended). The holiday season saw more customers for Styer's famous pies than I'd ever seen in one area.

(That was before I worked Black Friday at the mall.)

I loved being in charge of all the baked goods, helping customers find the perfect dessert for that night, and assisting the bakers in the back with whipping up innumerable goodies. I eventually quit when a better-paying job came along, but there was always a soft spot in my heart for that bakery.

You wouldn't be able to pay me $5.15 an hour to go back, but I do occasionally pop in and say hello to the pies.

Culinary Collegiates

This is me.

This is my sophomore year roommate and good friend to this day.

Adrianna was a mutual friend, and in case you couldn't tell, it was her 20th birthday. It was April 2009, and our sophomore year was coming to a close. We decided to bake cupcakes for Adrianna's birthday, and because we doubled the recipe to make as many as possible, we had enough red velvet batter left over for a cake.

I learned three valuable lessons from my roommate Diana that day:
1. It's always okay to eat the batter as you go.
2. It's possible to bake with olive oil instead of canola oil, even if OCD-baker Andrea has a serious problem with it.
3. Always overfill the cupcakes. They're more fun when they're spilling over the cups. Also, don't skimp on the icing. The more icing, the better.

I refused to follow these three rules that day. I decided to bake my half of the cupcakes my way. But when Adrianna reached toward an obnoxiously fat, frosting-drowned cupcake for her first bite, I realized there might be something to these three golden rules. Especially when I ate one for myself.

That entire year was filled with culinary craziness. It was our first year away from a meal plan and faced with our own kitchen. We made a pact to eat dinner together and cook as much as possible. I was the pasta maker; Diana made a pineapple chicken that was unbelievable.

Those were the early days when we'd fight over who got to wash our little tie-dye Target plates. Yeah. That lasted maybe 2 weeks. And unfortunately, as the semester wore on, we cooked less and less. But we always made a point to sit down at our little kitchen table and have our separately-prepared dinners together. But my favorite memories are the ones where we attempted cooking together. We'd divvy up what needed to be done, and we'd attack it, aprons and all. It was a cooking adventure, sophomore year. And it brought two acquaintances to the brink of friendship. And we've been close ever since.

And yes, we still cook. We don't live together, but we still try to get together for lunch or dinner. I think my adventurous streak in the kitchen came from that year. I'd never cooked with anyone other than my mom before, and Diana and I, even though we both came from traditional Italian families, still had things to learn from each other.

But more than any of that, if was fun. Oh, was it fun.

We Give Thanks

Thanksgiving in the Modica household is nothing short of chaotic. My mother willingly volunteers to host the smorgasbord every year, mainly because my grandmother gets Christmas and my aunt's idea of Thanksgiving is a pre-cooked turkey from Boston Market. The rest of our family, who live in Boston, spend Thanksgiving up north, leaving the remaining 13 of us to break bread and eat cranberry sauce together. Like I said before, my mom loves Thanksgiving, loves cooking it, loves smelling it, and most importantly, loves having sole claim on the leftovers. But the morning of that fateful Thursday, you'd think she'd been forced to prepare this meal at gunpoint.

"Everybody OUT of my kitchen!" she'll bellow one minute.
"Why is nobody helping me?" she'll scream the next.
"Get OUT OUT OUT!" she'll yell at my dad.
He retreats to the basement, aimlessly cleaning it up.
"ANDRE!" she'll holler down to my father. "YOU'RE NOT HELPING ME!"
He looks at me, exasperated, as only a man who thought he was following orders can.

And so it goes.

She claims to love the holiday, but she turns into a raving madwoman in the process of creating the food. I try to help, but I usually find myself kicked out of the kitchen as well. Usually, my job is the table. Now, we're normally a family of six. Add seven extra relatives to the mix, and something needs to be done about our table.

Here's what it looks like regularly:

 It's my job to unearth the four extra pieces of the table to make it look like this:

After all the bellowing and hollering has ceased for a little while, my grandmother decides to show up an hour and a half early, while my mother is still not showered, so the bellowing and hollering not only continue, but reach new decibels. My dad and grandfather race for the basement, plopping in front of the flat screen to watch the football game. I'm left taking shouted orders from my toweled and wet-haired mother, who needs to remind me to take out the sweet potatoes as the buzzer is blaring.

I'm sure you want to be around my family when Christmas rolls around.

"Don't forget to MAKE THE PUNCH!" she yells from upstairs.

Ah yes, the punch. My specialty. It's a Modica family tradition. It makes an appearance at every birthday party, graduation party, anniversary, Thanksgiving and Christmas we host. It's the most simple, crowd-pleasing thing we've ever made (much to my mother's dismay). There will be plenty of turkey and stuffing left over by the end of the night, but the punch bowl will be dry.

MODICA FAMILY PUNCH

Ingredients
1 liter of Sprite or 7UP soda
1 container of Berry Juicy Juice
1 container of strawberry sorbet, thawed a bit

Fill the punch bowl with ice cubes. Then add the entire container of Berry Juice and Sprite/7UP. Make sure the sorbet is soft enough, then dump it upside-down into the punch, making sure it comes out in a perfect circle. The sorbet will melt down into a white, tasty film that floats on top of the punch all night. Enjoy!