It's a Wonderful Knife (20 page)

I've had this recipe forever! Christmas wouldn't be the same without these cookies. Good any time of the year, but especially at Christmas!

SIFT TOGETHER:

2 cups flour

½ teaspoon
salt

BLEND TOGETHER:

¾ cup butter

½ cup sugar

2 teaspoons almond extract (or you could use vanilla or peppermint)

1 egg

Mix dry ingredients into wet ingredients.

ADD:

1 cup chopped nuts

1 cup chocolate chips (chocolate mint chips are really good, too, or even peanut butter chips)

Stir with wooden spoon or heavy spoon.

Shape into 1-inch balls.

Place on cookie sheet.

Bake at 350 for 15–20 minutes.

Cool slightly and roll in confectioner's sugar (or shake in a plastic bag).

This recipe works well when doubled.

Snowballs can be frozen in plastic bags—just don't roll them in confectioner's sugar beforehand, and wait until they thaw to room temperature to do so.

Andrea Hauge Kaczor's ancestors hail from Norway. She states, “Our favorite Christmas pastry is an almond-flavored coffee cake called Oslo Kringle. I make it every Christmas. . . . It's my kids' favorite (they call it Kris Kringle).”

CRUST:

1 cup flour

½ cup butter, softened

2 tablespoons cold water

Mix flour and softened butter; add cold water and mix as for pie crust. Roll out and transfer to cookie sheet in two long strips about 2 inches wide and a ¼-inch thick.

CREAM PUFF PASTE:

1 cup water

½ cup butter

1 cup flour

3 eggs

½ teaspoon almond flavoring

Bring water and butter to a boil. Remove from stove and immediately add all flour; stir until smooth. Add one egg at a time, beating well after each addition. Add flavoring.

Spread on the above strips and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.

Frost when cool with the following icing:

1 cup confectioner's sugar

1 tablespoon butter

½ teaspoon almond flavoring

1 tablespoon cream

Combine all ingredients together and mix until blended.

My friend Tracy Blair Funnel states that she first had these years and years ago, and now her relatives insist that she bring them to every holiday and event. She said, “Beware, they are addictive! They also have caffeine, so you have a good excuse to make these a grown-ups-only dessert.”

1 cup butter, softened

1 cup firmly packed brown sugar

2 tablespoons milk

2 tablespoons instant coffee granules

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon rum extract

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

4 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon ground nutmeg

¼ teaspoon salt

chocolate sprinkles or melted chocolate (optional)

Beat butter in large bowl with electric mixer at medium speed until smooth.

Add brown sugar and beat until well blended.

Heat milk in small saucepan over low heat. Add coffee granules, stirring to dissolve. Add milk mixture, eggs, rum extract, and vanilla extract to butter mixture. Beat at medium speed until well blended.

Combine flour, baking powder, nutmeg, and salt in large bowl. Gradually add flour mixture to butter mixture, beating at low speed after each addition until blended.

Shape dough into two logs, about 8 inches long and 2 inches in diameter. Dough will be soft. Sprinkle lightly with flour if too sticky to handle.

Roll logs in chocolate sprinkles, if desired, coating evenly (1⁄3 cup sprinkles per roll). Or leave rolls plain and dip cookies in melted chocolate after baking.

Wrap each log in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

Tracy says:
I prefer the dip option. I use a nice dark chocolate and only dip the cookie a little bit. Makes a nice presentation and you can pick how much to use. Add colored sprinkles to the soft chocolate if
you want a real holiday look. Might be good with white chocolate, too (although I haven't tried that).

Preheat oven to 350. Grease cookie sheets. Cut rolls into ¼ – inch-thick slices. Place 1 inch apart on cookie sheets (keep unbaked cookie rolls or slices chilled until ready to bake). Bake 10–12 minutes or until golden brown. Transfer to wire racks to cool. Dip in chocolate if desired. Store in airtight container.

For dipping chocolate: Melt one cup chocolate chips in small saucepan over very low heat until smooth.

Makes about 60 cookies

I wanted to include this very old recipe, also from Tracy Blair Funnel, who reports that it's a family recipe on her husband, Doug's, side. The name of the person who it came from is lost, but another relative remembers that the baker baked them on a woodstove and gave them as gifts for Christmas.

1 cup shortening

1 cup molasses

2 eggs

1 cup sugar

½ cup hot water

2 teaspoons baking soda

1 teaspoon ginger

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon salt

4½ cups flour

Mix together shortening, molasses, eggs, and sugar until creamed.

Mix separately hot water and baking soda, and add to molasses mixture.

Sift together remaining ingredients and add slowly. Let stand in refrigerator overnight.

Roll chilled dough mixture onto a floured surface, and use a cookie cutter or cup to cut out cookies.

As an optional step, pat down lightly with sugar before baking (can also be done after baking).

Place on cookie sheet and bake at 350 for about 10 minutes.

(Mandel Bread)

My friend Jenn Kettell's grandmother used to send each of her grandchildren a cookie tin full of her Mandelbrodt when they were in college. If you returned the tin when you came home for breaks, she'd refill it and
send you more. Jenn said that she and her aunt still bake it for family occasions.

6 eggs

2 cups sugar

2 cups canola oil or Crisco

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

6 cups flour

3 teaspoons baking powder

OPTIONAL

8–12 ounces chocolate chips

1–2 cups chopped nuts (pecan, walnut, or almonds)

Preheat oven to 375.

Beat eggs and sugar.

Add oil and mix.

Mix in vanilla extract, flour, and baking powder until fully incorporated.

Fold in optional ingredients.

Spoon dough onto greased pan and shape into strips, approximately 1½ inches wide.

(Hint: square off each end to avoid burning.)

Bake for approximately 25 minutes, until golden brown.

Let cool slightly; then slice strips into even pieces, approximately ¾ inch wide.

Lay pieces on their sides and return to the oven.

Toast in oven for 10–15 minutes.

Pack in a cookie tin or other sealed container. Allow the pieces to cool completely before packing. Mandelbrodt freezes well for an extended period of time.

My friend Gayle Kloecker Callen tells me that her grandmother Mary Vargo Theobald came from Czechoslovakia as a little girl. She said she remembers Grandma Theobald for the tuna fish and egg salad sandwiches she packed whenever she accompanied Gayle's family on road trips. Gayle loves to bake, and the recipe she uses most is Grandma Theobald's recipe for cutout cookies at Christmas. She told me, “I grew up baking them, and I made sure my kids did the same. Even now, my grown kids make me wait to bake them until they can travel home to help. So, in honor of my grandma Theobald, here's the recipe, and of course I included the frosting recipe, for what are cutouts without frosting?”

1 cup butter

1½ cups sugar

3½ cups flour

3 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 teaspoons cream of tartar

1 teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

Cream butter and add sugar, gradually creaming until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each egg. Stir in vanilla extract. Stir dry ingredients together; then add gradually to mixture.

Chill 3–4 hours or overnight.

Roll on floured surface; cut shapes.

Bake on ungreased sheets at 375 for 6–8 minutes.

BUTTERCREAM FROSTING

1 stick butter

3 tablespoons milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

4 cups powdered sugar

Slightly soften butter. Mix liquids together. Alternate adding liquid with a cup of powdered sugar until the consistency is right. (Powdered sugar is only a rough estimate.)

Makes 8 dozen cookies

This recipe came to me via my very funny French-Canadian friend Kris Fletcher.

She said that it's been a family favorite from the first bite.

NOTE: All quantities are to taste. There's no hard-and-fast rule when it comes to poutine. Just play around, sample, and tweak to your heart's delight.

French fries—a bag of frozen, or homemade if you have nothing else to do on Christmas Eve

cheese curds

cooked turkey or chicken, cut into smallish cubes

cranberry sauce

cooked peas

gravy, preferably turkey or chicken (Homemade is best, but if you have to use frozen or canned, do what you must. It's Christmas Eve. No one is going to judge.)

Cook the fries by whichever method you prefer. (I myself prefer to toss the frozen ones in the oven, the way it says on the bag.)

While they are cooking, break the cheese curds into small pieces, cook the peas if necessary, dice anything that needs dicing, and heat the gravy.

When the fries are piping hot, scoop half of them into a big bowl. Add half of all the other ingredients. Repeat the layers.

Ring the dinner bell and tell Santa to come to the table. Enjoy with a cold beer or hard cider.

My friend MJ Compton remembers her grandmother making this fudge every year between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Somehow, between working long hours at an industrial laundry, bowling leagues, and holiday banquets, she was able to give each of her twenty-six grandchildren (yikes!) a batch as part of their Christmas gift. MJ remembers Grandma Flossie sewing Barbie-doll clothes for all the granddaughters as Christmas gifts, too.

3 cups sugar

¾ cup margarine

⅔ cup evaporated milk

1 12-ounce package semisweet chocolate chips

1 7-ounce jar marshmallow cream

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Combine sugar, margarine, and milk in heavy 2½-quart saucepan.

Bring to full rolling boil, stirring constantly.

Continue boiling 5 minutes over medium heat, stirring.

Remove from heat and stir in chocolate until melted.

Add marshmallow cream and vanilla extract.

Beat until blended.

Pour into greased 13-x-9-inch baking pan.

Let cool and cut into 1-inch squares.

Read on to see what's cooking in Christine Wenger's first Comfort Food Mystery,

DO OR DINER

Available now from Obsidian!

W
hat on earth did I do?

A thrill of excitement shot through me as I stood in front of the Silver Bullet Diner. It was still hard to think of it as
my
diner, but the wad of keys in my pocket assured me that it was.

It was mid-March in upstate New York, Sandy Harbor to be exact, and the snow was falling in big fat flakes, adding to the six-foot banks around the parking lot. Still, the bright red neon of the diner's name and the blue neon proclaiming
AIR-CONDITIONED and OPEN 24 HOURS
shone through the snow and lit the way for patrons arriving for lunch.

It was my diner now.

Maybe it wasn't excitement that I felt, but more like anxiety. In diner lingo, maybe I had bitten off more than I could chew. Or maybe I was having buyer's remorse.

Probably all of the above!

As I surveyed my new kingdom on the frozen shore of Lake Ontario, I mentally listed all the things with which I needed to familiarize myself.

A huge gingerbread Victorian house located to the left of the diner and closer to the water had been
recently vacated by my aunt Stella. It was also now mine. It had almost disappeared in the heavy snow, with its pristine white paint and dark green shutters. It had a major wraparound porch that I planned to use in the summer. I'd sit in a forest green Adirondack chair and watch the waves of Lake Ontario lap at the shore.

I looked over at the twelve little white cottages that dotted the lakefront. It looked like the big Victorian had a litter.

They were called—
care to guess?
—the Sandy Harbor Guest Cottages.

My mind flashed back to the two weeks every summer that my family rented here. We always rented Cottage Number Six, on the front row of the first chain of cottages. My sister, my brother, and I would stay in the water from sunrise until sunset. Mom and Dad had to drag us out of the water, slather us with sunscreen, feed us, and listen to our pleas to go back in.

Now all twelve cottages belonged to me, and I'd be renting them out to the next generation of fishermen and families who'd enjoy them.

The Silver Bullet was the centerpiece of my little kingdom. Smiling, I saw that the parking lot was filled with cars that were frosted with a couple inches of snow. Customers entered the diner in groups, laughing and talking and looking forward to a good meal. They left the same way they came, but now sated by delicious comfort food and finishing their conversations before brushing the snow off their cars.

The scent of baking bread drifted on the crisp winter air and mixed with other cooking scents. My
mouth was watering just thinking of what I was going to order later.

Slogging through the snow to the side of the diner, I savored every aspect of its outside appearance: the curved lines, the metallic diamond-shaped edging around the windows, and the porchlike entranceway. The Silver Bullet looked like it had just been towed into place, not like it had been there since 1950.

I looked for the cement cornerstone, which I'd always thought was so romantic, but it was buried under several feet of snow. I knew what it said by heart:
STELLA AND MORRIS “PORKY” MATKOWSKI, M
ARRIED 1950, TOGETHER FO
REVER IN OUR LOVE
.

They were together until Uncle Porky died a month ago.

I sighed, thinking about the two of them. Porky and Stella always finished each other's sentences and walked hand in hand. But now Stella was alone, just like I was alone, but I hoped to change that as soon as I met more people in the community. I remembered Sandy Harbor as being a friendly place, and that was just what I needed—friends.

Actually, Aunt Stella wasn't alone right now. A gaggle of her friends came for Porky's funeral and stayed at the house. They helped her through the first month of losing her husband, and now she was en route to a senior community in Boca with them. They planned on living like the
Golden Girls
characters, but first they were going on a cruise around the world.

Because she was busy entertaining her friends, packing to leave, and searching for her missing passport, Aunt Stella didn't have much time to show me the entire operation.

“The same people have been working here forever. They know what to do,” she'd told me several times.

I pointed my boots toward a slushy path that led to my new house. Maybe I should unpack and get settled, but I was eager to get more acquainted with everyone and everything.

I took a deep breath and let it out. All this was so overwhelming. Mostly because I, Beatrix Matkowski (formerly known as Beatrix Burnham), was starting over at age thirtysomething.

I was freshly divorced from Deputy Doug Burnham after ten years of marital nonbliss. And, after ten years of trying to start a family and failing at it, Deputy Doug proved that it wasn't his fault by getting Wendy, his twenty-one-year-old girlfriend, pregnant with twins.

The day after I found out about Doug and Wendy, I was downsized from my job as a City of Philadelphia tourist information specialist, a position that meant I sat at a walk-in tourist information site and dispensed heaps of tourist information.

How things had changed in a few months!

They say that bad things always come in threes: Uncle Porky died before my divorce and the downsizing.

After the cemetery, where we left Uncle Porky's
ashes in the Matkowski family crypt, everyone came back to the diner for food and remembering. My mother, who had rolled into town with my father in their motor home, cried and laughed with relatives and friends who she hadn't seen in years. My father told humorous tales of Uncle Porky, his older brother.

My mom, Aunt Stella, and Aunt Beatrix all got a little tipsy and giggly, and they fell asleep in one of the back booths of the diner.

When my mom sobered up, she decided that since Stella was going around the world, she and my dad should go to Key West and take Aunt Beatrix with them. I didn't get the parallel, but early the next morning they all took off, except for Aunt Beatrix, who was taking Amtrak back to NYC because she'd been to Key West “fifty years ago, and it's probably the same.”

It was over the Wednesday special at the diner, ironically a Philly steak sandwich and a small chef salad, that Aunt Stella discussed selling me “the point.” “The point” is local talk for the Silver Bullet, the cottages, and her Victorian house—everything that Stella and Porky owned.

“I'll make you an offer that you can't refuse,” she'd said. “And we'll figure out a payment plan.” She wrote down some dates and dollar amounts in columns on the back of a paper place mat that advertised local businesses.

Aunt Stella was far too generous. She was practically just handing me the whole pierogi. Almost.

So I went back home to think about it, and then my life fell apart with Doug.

Then the pieces fell together again.

Doug, acting very civilly, offered to buy out my share of the house, furniture, and whatever. Apparently Wendy liked my faux–Williamsburg colonial and the school district, and she had just come into a trust fund. She wanted Deputy Doug, my house, and its entire contents enough to buy me off handsomely, on the condition that I leave town.

I shook hands with my husband of ten years and took a last look at my beautiful house just outside Philadelphia. I had a pang of regret at leaving all the lovely antiques that we'd accumulated throughout our marriage.

But I wasn't going to be an antique! I was going to start over—clean slate, fresh, new, reborn.

I stuffed my personal belongings into my boring gray Ford Focus and drove from Philly to Sandy Harbor in one day.

Suddenly, I had a nice chunk of money for a down payment—Wendy's “kiss-off” check—that was burning a hole in my Walmart purse.

Aunt Stella told me that the mayor of Sandy Harbor had made a purchase offer on “the point” but she'd turned him down. He wasn't family, she'd said, and besides, “He owns half of Sandy Harbor already.”

She'd also turned down another restaurateur who wanted to add another restaurant to his empire, because he wasn't family either.

Aunt Stella emphatically stated that the figures on the place mat were only a guideline . . . that I was her niece, and she knew that I'd take good care of what she and Uncle Porky had built.

I'd told her that I absolutely would take care of everything and keep our family memories safe, from the smallest black-and-white picture of Porky hanging on the wall to the huge collection of recipes from family and friends.

But the diner had me worried. As the flickering red neon sign on the top of the diner said, it was open twenty-four hours and had been since 1950. The Silver Bullet was an icon in these parts.

Aunt Stella shook off my concern with a wave of her hand, telling me not to worry.

Yeah, right,
I had thought as I'd pushed a check for partial payment over to her and she'd dropped the keys into my hand.

Aunt Stella had patted my cheek and said that Uncle Porky would've been very happy. They hadn't had children of their own, and they had often wondered what they'd do with their property.

Owning my own diner was heaven-sent. I just loved to cook. It had been my salvation on those lonely nights when Deputy Doug wasn't home. I made comfort food, and heaven knew that I needed comfort. As a matter of fact, I comforted the whole neighborhood with stews, pierogi, mac and cheese, pot roasts, chili, and hip-enlarging desserts.

Perfect diner food.

I decided to savor my first trip to the Silver Bullet as its owner and save it for last on my list of places to visit and observe.

Or maybe I was procrastinating. I could cook; I knew that. I grew up in the Silver Bullet kitchen and waitressed there when I was in college, but I didn't know if I could handle the business aspect of it all. I'd learn, however. My first step would probably be ordering food and supplies and how to do payroll.

I headed to the bait shop on the other side of the boat launch. It didn't belong to me, but there was someone there who I needed to visit. It'd been a long time since I'd seen Mr. Farnsworth.

Opening the front door of the bait shop, I walked in. Smiling down at me from a high ladder was Mr. Farnsworth. He hadn't changed a bit since I was a kid . . . well, maybe a bit. His hair was as white as the snow falling outside, and I noticed a few more lines on his face, but he was as slim and as friendly as ever.

“If it isn't little Trixie Matkowski!” He slowly climbed down the ladder and pulled me into a bear hug against his red flannel shirt. “Stella told me that she sold to you. Wanted to keep it in the family, she said.”

“Well, Mr. Farnsworth, I'm not so little anymore, but, yes, I'm the new owner.”

He dropped his hands and stepped away. “You're the spitting image of your aunt Beatrix. She's a looker, that gal.”

Aunt Beatrix is my dad's older sister and like
my fairy godmother. I could never predict when she'd surface from her penthouse on Fifth Avenue in New York City and appear, but she always seemed to know when I needed her the most.

So, Aunt Beatrix (and don't call her Trixie!) should be arriving any time now.

I walked over to look at the cement tubs that usually contained minnows and the like. They were empty, and the familiar gurgling of the water pumps was absent.

Way back when, my sister, brother, and I, along with a bunch of friends, would hit the bait shop at least once a day to watch the bait swim around.

It was almost better than TV.

“Mr. Farnsworth, are you getting ready for trout season? Getting worms?” I expected a big fishing season when the lake defrosted. The more fishermen, the more business I'd have.

“Sure. I've ordered worms for those who use natural bait, but I've also ordered poppers, spoons, plugs, and jigs. And for the fancy fishermen types, I've ordered buzzes, blades, cranks, tubes, and vibrators.”

Vibrators?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not a thing, Trixie. I'll be fully loaded and ready for trout season.”

“Good. Thanks, Mr. Farnsworth. I'll help you stock the shelves if you'd like.”

He shook his head and grinned. “No way. It's my favorite part of my job.”

I half expected him to hand me a lollipop and
send me on my way, as he'd done when I was a kid. Mr. Farnsworth always had an ample supply of them. Then I noticed a fishbowl on the counter by the register. It was full of colorful lollipops.

As if he'd read my mind, he walked to the bowl, pulled out a grape one—my favorite—and handed it to me with a slight bow.

It had been years since I'd had a grape lollipop. I tore open the plastic wrapper and popped it into my mouth.

I pulled out the lollipop. “You remembered?” I asked, stunned.

He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Of course.”

I heard a thumping noise from the side of the shop. From what I could recall, the stairs led to a storage area above. The noise got closer, then stopped.

Then at the bottom of the steps, by a display of army green waders, was a . . . cowboy?

He tweaked the brim of his hat to me. “Howdy, ma'am.”

This guy seemed like a bona fide, real cowboy. Museum quality. Now, he was something you didn't see every day in little old Sandy Harbor.

His black cowboy hat and boots made him seem about six foot four. He had on a pair of dark jeans that he was born to wear. A crisp-looking white shirt was tucked in, and a brown leather belt with silver conchos surrounded his waist. A belt buckle the size of one of the Silver Bullet's platters sat on his flat stomach. His boots were
spit shined—maybe snakeskin—and he wore a brown suede bomber jacket.

I managed to pull the grape sucker from my mouth.

“Hi.”

I noticed that his sky blue eyes traveled down the length of my body, taking in my red, puffy knee-length parka, my shin-high hiking boots, and the purple scarf draped around my head and neck like a mummy. I wondered if he noticed how my purple mittens and purple scarf matched my grape sucker.