smitten kitchen

Let’s say I was an alien, or new here or something — er, not entirely impossible, if you consider that I woke up yesterday with small feet fidgeting way further up my rib cage than I thought anatomically possible, leading me to wonder what I actually know about anatomy, leading to an inadvisable, rash amount of Google Image searching, leading to my eyes popping out of my head and whoa, I’ve digressed mightily — and I asked you to explain to me what is this “graham cracker” flavor that you speak of, could you do it?

Because I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out what it was, and seeing the wide range of graham cracker — they’re something like digestive biscuits, for those of you across the pond — recipes out there, it’s not just me. There was the one I tried a couple years ago with rye flour, which I can assure you, was not the answer. Graham flour — a coarsely, exactingly ground whole wheat flour — would be the obvious answer, since they originate with one Rev. Sylvester Graham himself, but that doesn’t go far to explain the curious flavor of the cookie-like crackers. Cinnamon is another thing most recipes agree on, but when I tried a version with a lot of cinnamon in it (rather than on it, in a cinnamon-sugar coating), it tasted wrong. Ditto with another that contained an excess of molasses.

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We’re starting the long and brutal process of packing up our apartment, brutal because as I am sure you know, the longer you live somewhere, the more uh, “stuff” you accumulate and forget about. We’ve lived here over four years, the longest I’ve lived anywhere besides my parents house, which means that weeding through our belongings is part “so that’s where my Tonic CD went!” (he swears he was joking) and part “you had a recipe binder?”

Oh right, I did. Remember those dark days before the internet, when curious cooks actually had to clip recipes from newspapers and magazines, and keeping those clippings organized in some sort of book or box? Nope, me neither. Going through this binder is fascinating for me as I see what kind of recipe hopes I’d had ten years ago — a surprising amount I’ve actually gotten to. And of course there are things that I completely forgot about, like almond cookies that are made with only three ingredients (okay, four, I added salt).

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People, I am so excited about this recipe, it’s pretty much all I can talk about this week. I mentioned it to a broker who showed us another dud of an apartment (more about that if/when we make it out alive). I mentioned it to a friend who doesn’t eat sweets (and we’re still friends! Really, it’s more for everyone else.). And I tried to explain it to another friend who has probably never baked in her life, who politely nodded, smiled and scooted out of the room. As you can see, I can be incredibly boring when I get excited about cooking. That’s what you’re here for.

I have been wanting to come up with a completely home-baked, from scratch and all-natural chocolate wafers for years. It has been an outright obsession of mine, since Alex introduced me to the fabulousless that is Icebox Cake and I was disappointed to learn that the only way to make it was to buy some often-hard-to-find Nabisco chocolate wafers with their own set of disconcerting ingredients. I knew a homemade recipe was out there — for crazy people like me, it’s not like if you’re looking for a shortcut, the store bought ones still won’t do — but I had a hard time finding it.

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Does anyone remember the commercials back in the day for Duncan Hines chocolate chip cookies? For some reason, the “crispy, chewy” song got stuck in my head for years. Decades, really. I’m 32 years old and I would like it out now.

Nevertheless, the description of the ideal chocolate chip cookie was perfect — crisp at the edges, soft in the middle, and pretty much summed up what everyone is looking for in their chocolate chip cookie nirvana. Of course if you ever caved and bought a package of their cookies, well, I’ll be nice, but let’s just say they certainly didn’t live up the cookie dream for me.

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I woke up Sunday morning craving oatmeal raisin cookies something fierce, so I tried to make myself eat oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar in it for breakfast but that didn’t work, and so there was nothing left to do but to bake cookies. My life is so hard, innit?

I have very specific tastes in oatmeal raisin cookies. A crisp edge is always welcome, but the rest of it must be thick and chewy. Just to confuse, this is unlike other oatmeal cookie recipes on this site, the crunchier chocolate chip pecan version and the thick but shattery, salty white chocolate version. Nope, my oatmeal raisin cookies demand their own texture, and one I can’t get from those other recipes.

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