So my grandmother - and my mom and her sisters - have a cookie recipe that is so beloved in our family that my mom had it printed on a platter for my cousin's wedding shower present and the cousin started crying when she unwrapped it.
This is not about that recipe; it is in fact, the opposite. In my neighborhood in suburban Philly, my mom…
So my grandmother - and my mom and her sisters - have a cookie recipe that is so beloved in our family that my mom had it printed on a platter for my cousin's wedding shower present and the cousin started crying when she unwrapped it.
This is not about that recipe; it is in fact, the opposite. In my neighborhood in suburban Philly, my mom's chocolate chip cookies were this incredible prize among neighborhood children. I still love them; my dad is a lifelong fiend. But one neighbor kid was so obsessed with them, my mom once burned a batch and dumped them in the snow for the birds, and we looked out our windows to see [name] eating one out of the snow. At one point, after getting "my mom's recipe" his mom even tried baking her own in our oven to "get them right" (sidenote: shut up and eat your mom's cookies, kid).
My mom's magical, unreplicable recipe was from the back of the Toll House bag. Maybe an adjustment to softening butter or a tweak in brown sugar, but she wasn't doing alchemy. I've never figured out what the difference was, but I stand by it. I can't wait to grab a bunch at Thanksgiving.
So my grandmother - and my mom and her sisters - have a cookie recipe that is so beloved in our family that my mom had it printed on a platter for my cousin's wedding shower present and the cousin started crying when she unwrapped it.
This is not about that recipe; it is in fact, the opposite. In my neighborhood in suburban Philly, my mom's chocolate chip cookies were this incredible prize among neighborhood children. I still love them; my dad is a lifelong fiend. But one neighbor kid was so obsessed with them, my mom once burned a batch and dumped them in the snow for the birds, and we looked out our windows to see [name] eating one out of the snow. At one point, after getting "my mom's recipe" his mom even tried baking her own in our oven to "get them right" (sidenote: shut up and eat your mom's cookies, kid).
My mom's magical, unreplicable recipe was from the back of the Toll House bag. Maybe an adjustment to softening butter or a tweak in brown sugar, but she wasn't doing alchemy. I've never figured out what the difference was, but I stand by it. I can't wait to grab a bunch at Thanksgiving.