A SERIES OF CONVERSATIONS ABOUT RAISINS
[Monday morning]
Mum: Do we have any raisins?
Me: Yeah, why? I thought you hated raisins.
Mum: No I don't hate raisins. I wanted some on my granola.
Me: Well yes of course we have two different kinds of raisins actually but I thought you hated them.
Mum: Thanks. And no. I don't hate them. I like raisins.
Me: [now standing on a stool with my head in the baking cupboard] So whenever I suggest Oatmeal Raisin cookies or putting raisins in soda bread or tea bars or anything you're just joking when you say "I don't like raisins I think it would be better without them?"
Mum: I just don't like Oatmeal Raisin cookies because they're always too soft and sweet. I like raisins in YOUR cookies and things.
Me: [handing her the carton of raisins] I think you're lying, frankly. But here.
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[Tuesday morning]
Me: So I was thinking that maybe I'd try to make Chewy Ginger Raisin cookies. A really dense chewy gingersnap with golden raisins in it. How do you think you'd feel about that?
Mum: I think I'd feel fantastic about that. I think you should make them right now.
Me: I haven't suggested it yet because I never know how you feel about raisins and I always think you hate them in things but since you had them yesterday I was thinking about it.
Mum: I don't hate raisins. I don't know why you think I hate them. I like raisins. And I think they'd be really good in the ginger cookie things.
Me: Ok. I will make them.
-----
[Wednesday evening]
Me: Ok here. Try these. I made super dark gingerbread cookies from Martha Stewart and put raisins in them.
Mum: Ooo. They smell fantastic.
[pause]
Me: Yes?
[pause]
Mum: [chewing and swallowing and looking pensive]
Me: You look less than totally on board with this.
[pause]
Mum: . . . They're good. They're really good.
[pause]
Mum: . . . I think they would be better without the raisins.
[pause]
Me: Are you freaking kidding me right now?
-----
[Thursday afternoon, driving]
Me: So do you think the LL's will like the cookies?
Mum: Yes. I absolutely do.
Me: Even though they have raisins in them?
Mum: The raisins aren't BAD. I just think the rest of the cookie is so nice that they don't really need them. I guess I just don't like raisins in cookies.
Me: Because we had a conversation about this, several actually, where you specifically said that you liked raisins and that you thought they would be good in these cookies. And when pressed about your previously stated dislike of raisins you assured me that you did, in fact, like raisins, moreover raisins in my cookies and bars, and that you thought they would be a good addition. And that's kind of why I went ahead and made them. And now I'm worried that the LL's won't like them because I screwed them up by adding raisins.
Mum: You didn't screw them up. They're good. They're good cookies.
Me: Except for the raisins. Which you may or may not like.
Mum: I don't dislike raisins.
Me: Except in oatmeal raisin cookies. And ginger raisin cookies. Or maybe you like raisins on Tuesdays but not Wednesdays? Is that how this works?
Mum: [no comment]
Me: So what you're telling me is that you're a Raisin Schizophrenic? You have multiple raisin personalities?
Mum: Watch the road.
Me: Whatever, I have the right of way plus he's from New Hampshire so he sucks.
-----
[later that afternoon]
Me: So what's the verdict?
Mum: Success. They liked them.
Me: Even with the raisins? Did anyone say anything?
Mum: No, everyone said they were good. And I even ate another one at work so there.
Me: Did you pick the raisins out first?
Mum: That was below the belt.
-----
[Friday evening, mid-argument about the European Parliament]
Me: HOW THE HELL WOULD YOU KNOW? YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW IF YOU LIKE RAISINS OR NOT. THAT DOESN'T INSPIRE MUCH CONFIDENCE IN YOUR OTHER SLIGHTLY MORE COMPLICATED PERSONAL AND POLITICAL CONVICTIONS.
-----
[Saturday evening]
Mum: So. Um.
Me: Yes? Can I get you anything? I'm just making more tea.
Mum: No, thank you. I just wanted to tell you something. And I don't want you get upset.
Me: I love when things start that way. What?
Mum: Um. Well.
Me: What.
[pause]
Mum: Well. I sort of like the raisins now.
[pause]
[pause]
[pause]
Me: Sucks for you I haven't written up the post for it yet.
GINGER RAISIN CHEWS
(in which raisins are of course optional)
As stated, I used the Martha Stewart recipe for "Chewy Gingerbread Cookies" which looked appropriately chewy, dark, and spicy (I don't hold with these namby pamby ginger confections - if you're gonna call it "ginger" it had better be strong.) This recipe, intriguingly, has two tbs of unsweetened cocoa powder in it, which led me to believe that it meant business. Below is the bowl of flour and spices. As you can see, this one is taking no prisoners.
And I normally don't, but this time I went ahead and included the final step of rolling them in granulated sugar before baking.
I was feeling indulgent, I suppose.
I pulled them at 10 minutes (it's 10-12) so that they'd be extra chewy, and I gotta be honest with you there are few things better in life than the smell of ginger molasses spice THINGS baking in your oven. I'm convinced that if safety and happiness has a smell, this is it.
Can someone bottle it and use it for world peace already?
Just leave the raisins out. Otherwise who knows what might happen.
BONUS BEETLE BREAD
I realised I hadn't made soda bread in a long time so I threw together THIS experiment on Wednesday that actually turned out pretty well. It's a Beetle tweak on the Joy of Cooking basic Irish Soda Bread, subbing the flours and the seeds and also honey for the sugar. It's a much deeper-tasting soda bread than the traditional one (which I feel can be quite bland when not done properly) and according to Mum is equally good toasted with butter and jam for breakfast, or spread with cheese for dinner.
- 2 cups whole wheat flour
- 1 1/2 tsp baking powder
- 1/2 tsp baking soda
- 1/2 tsp salt
- 2 tsp anise seeds
- 1/4 cup (half a stick) butter, melted
- 1 egg
- 2/3 cup buttermilk
- 1/4 cup honey
Mix the flour, baking powder and soda, salt, and anise together in a large bowl. In a smaller bowl, beat the egg into the melted butter and add the buttermilk and the honey.
Butter a 9 x 5 loaf pan. I would say "pour" the batter in but it's sticky and stiff and it's not so much "pour" as "heave out of one bowl to another with a mixing spoon and flatten it all down."
Bake in the pan at 325 for 45 - 50 minutes, until the top is brown and it's starting to pull away from the edges. Cool five minutes in the pan before turning it out and letting it cool completely.
And yes, those are Mayflowers because we went Mayflowering last weekend.
Yes, we did go mother/daughter Mayflowering in the woods. With baskets. And headscarves.
Sometimes I wonder if we do actually live in an Astrid Lindgren novel.
I bet Pippi Longstocking likes raisins.
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