5 second rule

Wait

Wait.  I'm not ready.  I can still taste summer.

It's fainter now, in low relief, but the memories linger: the family, the friends, the beach.  A second cup of morning tea, a puzzle half complete.  Are the swimsuits dry?

Now, of course, there's fleece; heavy quilts atop the beds.  Darkness falls, like a hammer, before the clock strikes six. 

Hugs last longer.  Hoods pull tight.  Leaves fall. 

So while the world considers turkeys, I remember lobsters.  That one July night, when my family, and our friends, sat around a long, wooden table papered in the day's news.  The sweet summer corn, golden, melted butter, soft baked potatoes, and thick sour cream.  There were lobster crackers.  Lemon wedges. Piles and piles of napkins.  We licked briny fingers and tossed spent claws in a giant, central bowl.  Someone poured wine. 

So, yes, cranberry sauce is lovely.  And turkey is just fine.  Let the wind howl and the calendar turn.  In my heart, though, it's still July.  And I'm not quite ready to move on.

Priorities

Browsing in the library yesterday, I picked up a book written by the folks who produce Real Simple magazine. The whole thing was about how to clean your house.  I flipped through, hoping to find the antidote to my crumb-riddled kitchen floor, but even 10 seconds with that book was too much.  If I have time to read a book about housecleaning, someone needs to smack me upside the head. 

So it's with a fair  measure of shame and embarrassment that I devote today's post to roasting your own pumpkin.  In recognition of where this should fall on your priority list, I offer the following (in descending order of importance):

1) Feed any children and/or animals who reside in your home.

2) Bathe/shower.

3) Work / go to school / volunteer/ take care of wee ones. 

4) Read 800 articles about swine flu vaccine / stress about whether to get your swine flu vaccine/ get angry that there's no swine flu vaccine.  Repeat.

5) Roast a pumpkin.

6) Read a book about housecleaning.

So there you go.

But roasting a pumpkin is actually pretty fun, because then your fridge is filled with all this pumpkin puree and you're required, actually obligated, to make all kinds of pumpkiny things: pies, muffins, cakes, custards.  If you just rely on the cans, it's too easy to push them to the back of the cupboard and eat Ho Hos instead.

Here are some things you can make with your roasted, pureed pumpkin:

Pumpkin Mini Pies in a whole wheat ginger crust (from 5SR)
Pumpkin Quick Bread with cranberries and walnut meal (from 5SR)
Pumpkin Mascarpone Cheesecake (from Streaming Gourmet)
Pumpkin Pie Ice Cream (from Christie's Corner)
Spice-Kissed Pumpkin Pie (from 101 Cookbooks)
Spiced Pumpkin Layer Cake with Molasses Cream Cheese Frosting (from Homemakers, via Dana McCauley's Food Blog)
Spicy Pumpkin Soup (from Simply Recipes)
Pumpkin Bread Pudding with Maple and Pecans (from Food Blogga)
Whole Wheat Olive Oil Pumpkin Bread (from Recipe Girl)

You'll see, below, that it takes nothing but a strong arm, a sturdy knife, and an oven to roast a pumpkin.  A food processor, I'll admit, is a definite bonus, unless you want to floss your teeth with pumpkin strings, which I'd put as #6 on my list above, moving "reading a book about housecleaning" down to #7.  Just FYI.

...

Recipe for Homemade Roasted Pumpkin Puree

The recipe below calls for roasting one 4-pound sugar pumpkin, because that's what I did.  But I beg you to roast 2 smaller pumpkins instead.  It's very difficult to cut through the big ones, and if you get your knife stuck inside the thing you'll have to wait for your husband to come home and unjam it, which can take hours.  It's also embarrassing, but less embarrassing than accidentally impaling yourself, which is what may have happened had you tried to remove the thing yourself, and slipped.

One 4-pound sugar pumpkin (*see headnote)

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.  Using a heavy knife, cut the pumpkin in half.  Use a serrated grapefruit spoon (if you happen to have one) or a regular spoon to scrape out the seeds and all the strings.  Discard.  (I'm not a fan of toasted pumpkin seeds, but feel free to clean and roast them separately if you are.)

Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil and coat it with nonstick spray.  Lay the pumpkin halves cut side down, and roast for 50-60 minutes or until the peel is wrinkled and the flesh is very tender.  (See photo, upper right.) If you're roasting 2 smaller pumpkins, check them earlier as they won't take as long to cook.

Cool slightly, then scrape out the flesh, or, alternatively, just slip off the peel and cut the pumpkin into large chunks  (See photo, lower right.)  You can dice the chunks for use in stews, soups, or risottos.

To puree for baking, transfer chunks to a food processor and whirl until smooth.  Stop the machine and scrape the sides a few times.  It will take 2 to 3 minutes to get the pumpkin smooth. 

N.B. LATE ADDITION!  Set cooled puree in a cheesecloth-lined strainer over a large bowl in the refrigerator overnight -- or longer -- to drain it of excess liquid.  (Fold some cheesecloth over the top and cover the whole mess with plastic wrap, too.)  Store cooled puree in the refrigerator for up to 4 days, or freeze in 1 to 2 -cup quantities for future use.

Makes 5-1/2 cups puree.

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Nourish

There's nothing like being invited to a really great party.  The invitation arrives, all pretty. You know the hostess -- she's bubbly, smart, and fun.  There's just no doubt you're doing to have a good time. 

Oh!  Wait!  You mean he'll be there, too?  And her?  And HER?  Even better!  You've always wanted to meet them.  Such good luck that you were invited.

And then you see it.  At the bottom.  The last line of the invite says this:

Bring all your friends.

Wait, seriously?  You can bring ALL your friends?  Yes, yes, it turns out you can.

Invitation

TO: You

WHEN: Now

WHAT: The launch of Nourish Network, a new website and online community devoted to sound nutrition, eco-clean eating, and mindful meals.

My colleague Lia Huber, a fellow freelance food and health writer for such publications as Cooking Light, Prevention, Health, and Fitness, among others, has created this wonderful place where those interested in the intersections among mind, body, food, and the environment can interact and feel inspired.  I was brought on as a Contributor, along with my colleagues Alison Ashton, Jacqueline Church, and Kurt Michael Friese.  

My first article, Making Sense of Moderation, appears on the site here.  You'll find my recipe for mini dark chocolate puddings (pictured above) there as well.  You'll also find Alison's article on using pressure cookers, Jacqueline's article on demystifying umami, and Kurt's article on chile peppers, plus Lia's pieces on everything from sustainable seafood to canning.  Recipes and photographs accompany them all.

Come explore the site, see what it offers, and join the network by registering here.  Everyone's invited, so spread the word.

Grandmas

I sat next to a very, very old lady yesterday.  I don't say this lightly, or disrespectfully: she was 94, and in my book, that's old.  My kids were playing in a piano recital at a local nursing home, and she pushed her walker right up to me and took the seat next to mine.  When the concert was over, she folded my hand in hers and called me "lovely." 

Old people like me.  I have no idea why, frankly, because most young people could take me or leave me, but old people generally find me agreeable.  

Which makes it doubly sad that all of my natural grandparents died more than 10 years ago.  Happily, I have phenomenal step-grandparents, and they like me well enough.  Three cheers for divorce!  If my parents hadn't split and my dad hadn't remarried, I'd have neither grandparents nor step-grandparents, and then I'd just be awash, floating like a leaf, untethered from the family tree.

Perhaps all this thinking about older people explains why Pat Tanumihardja's new book, The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook (Sasquatch Books, 2009), resonated with me. 

 
The book profiles real life Asian grandmas and offers little stories about their backgrounds, educational achievements, work experiences, and family lives.  Of course, this is a cookbook, so the featured women also share their favorite recipes.  Dishes with Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Pakistani, Nepalese, and Indonesian influences, plus several others, are included.

As someone who has never had an Asian grandmother, a few recipes intimidated me with their length or unfamiliar ingredients, but I still found plenty to bookmark.  And the two I tried, Chinese Barbecued Pork and Amma's Rice (chicken biryani), pictured above, fed my family for days.  The upfront time that went into the cooking paid me back with phenomenal leftovers. 

Disclosurama:  Do I know Pat?  Yes.  (Here's her blog.)  Did I get this book as a free review copy? Affirmative.  Would I have dinner with your grandma? Sure. Would I eat whatever she served me?  Within reason, but no stuffed derma and no eel, please.  Will I one day be a grandma?  A cute grandma?  I'd better.  In fact, it's a goal of mine.  All babies are cute, but to pull off being a super-cute grandma... that's on my to-do list, for sure.

...

Recipe for Chinese Barbecued Pork

Adapted from The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook by Patricia Tanumihardja (Sasquatch Books, 2009)

A long marinade is key to the terrific flavor in this dish, so plan ahead.  Pat's original recipe called for boneless pork shoulder, but I used country pork ribs to great effect.  I also forgot to glaze my ribs with the reduced marinade (whoops), so if you want to do this, just boil the reserved marinade for 10 minutes and brush it on the ribs before serving.

Serves 4 to 6

2-1/2 pounds boneless country pork ribs, or boneless pork shoulder measuring 8 by 6 by 3 inches

2/3 cup sugar

1/2 cup low-sodium soy sauce

1 tablespoon dry sherry

1/2 teaspoon 5-spice powder

2 scallions, smashed

2 stems cilantro, smashed

1 pod star anise

Cut the ribs into 8 equal sized strips.  (I started with 4 long ribs and cut them in half width-wise.)  If using shoulder, cut it into 8 strips about 1-1/2 inches wide and 7 inches long.  Place in a single layer in a rectangular casserole.  I used a Pyrex dish.

Whisk the sugar, soy sauce, sherry, and 5 spice powder together in a small bowl.  Pour over the pork.  Nestle the scallions, cilantro stems, and star anise pod in the dish.  Cover with plastic wrap and marinate in the refrigerator for 24 hours, turning once if you remember.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.  Line the inside of a broiling pan with foil.  Remove the pork from the marinade and place atop the grated broiler pan.  (Transfer marinade to a small saucepan.)

Bake pork for 25 minutes, basting once or twice with reserved marinade.  Flip the pork, baste again, and bake an additional 15 to 20 minutes, or until the pork caramelizes and just begins charring at the edges.  

Transfer meat to a cutting board and let rest for 10 minutes.  Meanwhile, boil reserved marinade for at least 10 minutes, if using.  Cut meat crosswise into thin slices.  Brush with boiled, reduced marinade, if desired, before serving.

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Destiny

In the mid-80s, the Heathcote Deli, on Palmer Avenue, had these roundish, plastic-wrapped loaves of date nut bread.  We'd suffocate thick slices under blankets of cream cheese and down one after another.  God, I loved that date nut bread.  I loved it almost as much as I loved Camp Romaca, and Judy Blume.

Last month, with no warning whatsoever, psychedelic visions of date nut bread began tripping in my brain, and I became singularly obsessed with recreating this particular food of my youth.  I bought multiple cartons of overpriced Medjool dates, pried out the pits, and stuffed the cavities with nubbins of cream cheese, little bites to calm my nerves as I searched for a worthy quick bread recipe.

You know those movies where a child has been kidnapped and the mom runs around all wild, hair flying, as she tries to locate her offspring?  That has been me, seeking a recipe for my missing, long-lost breadchild.

"Have YOU seen a date nut bread recipe?" (eyes darting, shirt misbuttoned)  "If you do, call this number."

I screamed on Twitter.  "WHO HAS A DATE NUT BREAD RECIPE?"  Silence. 

Clearly, the task of recreating this recipe would fall on me. We all have a destiny, a calling, and it seems I'd found mine.

Two days later, I removed my destiny from the loaf pan, glopped it with cream cheese, and downed two nutty slices in succession.

Bite me, destiny.

...

Recipe for Date Nut Bread

My mother-in-law makes fantastically delicious date nut cakes every Christmas, and I'll never admit how many we go through in a single week.  But this date nut bread recipe is different, and it harkens back to my pre-mother-in-law youth.   If you do not smother it with cream cheese, don't talk to me.

8 ounces moist, sticky dates (either Medjool or deglet noor), pitted and chopped
3/4 cup boiling water
3/4 cup whole wheat pastry flour
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup nut meal of your choice (I used almond meal, but you can finely grind walnuts if you like)
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon each cardamom and ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs, at room temperature
1/3 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 cup canola oil
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup walnuts, rough-chopped or left big, toasted if desired

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Coat a 9x5-inch loaf pan with nonstick spray.

Place dates in a small bowl or 2-cup glass measuring cup and pour the boiling water on top.  Push down the dates to submerge.  Cover tightly with plastic wrap and set aside to soften for 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, whisk the dry ingredients (whole wheat pastry flour through salt) together in a large mixing bowl.  In a separate medium bowl, whisk the eggs, brown sugar, oil, and vanilla.

When dates are ready, pour off the water into a small bowl and reserve the liquid.  Transfer dates to a small food processor, add back 3 tablespoons of the date soaking water (discard the rest), and puree until thick, uniform, and sticky.  You should have one cup of date paste.  Transfer paste to the egg mixture and whisk well to combine.

Add the wet ingredients to the dry, and stir well with a rubber spatula, sweeping the bottom of the bowl to ensure that all flour particles are absorbed.  Do not overmix.  Fold in the walnuts.

Scrape batter into the prepared loaf pan and bake in the center of the oven for 55 minutes, or until a skewer comes out clean.  Cool on a wire rack.  When loaf has fully cooled, slice, and slather with cream cheese.  (To store, wrap the cooled loaf tightly with foil.  The flavor and texture actually improve with age.)

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Happy

Grab a peach turnover, wrap your hands around a cup of tea, and come sit close to me for a second.  I have something to share with you, and I want to make sure you're comfortable, warm, and well fed.

How do I say this without making you spill your tea on me?

I got a book contract.

Yes, you heard me.

Can we have a group hug?

Those of you who have been reading this blog for a while probably remember how I raved about Paulette Phlipot's gorgeous photography many moons ago.  (Here's that post.)  Well, Paulette and I ended up writing a proposal to do a cookbook together, and, um, Running Press has just signed us on.  We send platonic wet kisses to our rock star agent Jenni Ferrari-Adler of Brick House Literary Agents in New York.

The book will be called RIPE: Satisfy your lust for fruits and vegetables with 75 fresh recipes and hundreds of simple combinations.  It will be a colorful, photo-heavy book dedicated to fresh produce, and it will be beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful.

Don't leave just yet.  Stay another minute?  I just want to drink in this moment with you, sip my tea, and eat my pastry.

I am very, very happy. 

I want to squeeze you all.

Caramel

Caramel seems innocent enough. But beware, because in my highly subjective experience, people who make caramel from scratch burn themselves like a mother&^%$* over and over and over again.

In 2002, during the first few weeks of culinary school, one woman already stood out from the pack.  I don't know if it's because she was younger, tried harder, or was just more talented than the rest of us (probably all three), but she cooked with a fluidity and ease that make me feel like a drunken elephant.  At some point in your life you stop hating people like this and, instead, learn to respect their skills.  I did, and still do.  She's a brilliant cook.

So we're on the caramel lesson, and all of a sudden there's a sound from the other side of the kitchen.  Turns out she'd burned her finger on the caramel.  And you know what happened when she burned her finger?  She instinctively brought it right up to her mouth to suck on, burned her lip, and burned the inside of her mouth for good measure.  Got a big blister for her troubles, too.

I think over the course of that year each of us in the class did the exact same thing: burned the finger/put it in the mouth/burned the mouth.  It's the stupidest thing in the world to do after you've seen someone else do it, but humans can be incredibly stupid sometimes.  Really, really stupid.  Wonderful, and sweet, and funny, but stupid.  I'm a case in point.

So when I make caramel, like I did when I followed Charmian's amazing salted caramel ice cream recipe, I guard against burns.  I suit up.  I wear long sleeves, I put on real shoes, and I repeat a mantra over and over and over again: don't put your finger in your mouth don't put your finger in your mouth don't put your finger in your mouth don't put your finger in your mouth don't put your finger in your mouth don't...

Then the caramel's done, and I'm safe.  And it looks so, so good.  All deep and brown and sweet smelling, all tempting and inviting.  All I have to do is wait for it to cool.  I wonder if it's ready to taste?  It looks ready.  Maybe I'll just swipe my index finger in really fast and OW *CRAP* (suck) annnnnnnnnnnnd there's the burn.

Stock

Stock is an ugly word.  It's harsh and clipped, and it doesn't loll about all syrupy on the tongue and emerge with an upbeat trill.  It lacks the mellifluous character of risotto or omelet or even pie.  But is that a reason not to make it? 

Maybe.

No, seriously, you should still make it.  And it turns out you can even make chicken stock in your crock pot. 

I learned this technique from a fellow blogger, Katie, of Chaos in the Kitchen.  Here's the soup she made from this stock.  It's a brilliant, effortless way to get more bang for your carcass and squirrel away stock for the depths of winter.  If you like it, email Katie and tell her she's a genius.

I'd also like to point out that my marriage began with a bowl of soup.  In a sense.  I met Colin when we were both students here, and he made it very hard for me to woo him.  But persistence paid off, as it often does in non-stalkerish matters of the heart.  See, one day he was sick, and I knocked on his dorm room door with a bowl of soup, and he answered it wearing the most ridiculous dinosaur slippers you could possibly imagine.  I mean, riDICulous.  Any normal college senior would have run screaming in the other direction, never to return, but I was charmed by the slippers.  I wouldn't go so far as to say they were sexy, because they weren't, and seeing the object of your massive crush come to the door all disheveled and snotty and fevery isn't really so much of a turn-on either, but it was too late. 

I already nearly loved him.  I really almost did.

A few days later he was healthy and we made out for a good long time.

The soup obviously helped my case, at least in part.

Comfort

"I love sleep.  It's so relaxing." - Alex, age 8.

I sometimes long for the simplicity of childhood.  You wake, toss on a sweatshirt and some athletic pants, scrub your teeth, splash your face, and head downstairs for a bowl of cereal or a plate of mapley pancakes.  You chat with your brother, or flip through a Calvin & Hobbes or an Asterix, whatever's lying on the counter's edge.  You fill your backpack, toss in a water bottle, velcro your sneakers, and poof! You're off to school.

On the way, you stop at a little patch of grass, observing wriggly snails writhe and slip among the brush, pointing out an especially big one to your mother or brother, urging them to come back to where you've dawdled.  "You've really got to see this one."

You walk on, pants swhooshing as the legs rub together, little squeaks that measure your progress down the block, around the corner.

You suggest the rhyming game.  Who wants to play?  "Bug," you say.  Tug.  Dug.  Hug.  Jug.  Shrug.

You arrive at your classroom, take your place in line, and tilt your forehead up for a mother's kiss.  Your teacher arrives.  "Good morning." 

An adult's life is a little more complicated.  The morning routine requires more thought, more time, more discipline.  Dishes need washing, syrupy spills need sponging up, wayward books need to be set back in their bins.  Lunches made, water bottles filled, doors pulled and locked shut. 

But you walk, together, towards the school, and as you do, the stresses of the coming day take a back seat.  The deadline recedes, the tough decisions blur, the how-am-i-going-to-finish-the-whatevers dissipate, dissolve.

You're walking with your kids, and it's the simplest, best part of the long day ahead.

...

Recipe for Polenta with caramelized onions and walnuts

I wish I could express how much I love this dish, but I'm afraid I'll fail to capture its pure earthiness, which is why I wrote about walking my kids to school instead.  Polenta is so soothing, comforting, and soft, so gentle and warm, it's like a cozy blanket on the arm of your couch.  When life throws you chaos, when work makes you nuts, when you're unsure, unstable, unable, make this dish.  Sit quietly, and enjoy it.  I promise you'll feel better.

Makes about 3 servings

3 cups cold water
1 teaspoon Kosher salt, divided
3/4 cup polenta (coarse cornmeal)
2 teaspoons butter
2 large yellow onions
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1/2 teaspoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar
Handful of walnut halves, preferably toasted

In a medium nonstick (if possible) saucepan, bring water and 1/2 teaspoon of the salt to a boil.  Slowly stream in the polenta, whisking all the while.  Reduce the heat to low, and cook, stirring frequently (I use a nonstick whisk but you can use a heatproof spatula or wooden spoon), until the water is absorbed and the polenta is nice a creamy, about 20 minutes.    Remove from heat, stir in the butter, and keep covered.

Meanwhile, thinly slice the onions.  Place a large skillet over medium-high heat and add the olive oil.  Toss in the onions, the remaining 1/2 teaspoon of salt, and saute, stirring frequently, until soft, about 15 minutes.  Reduce the heat as needed so the onions do not burn.

Then reduce the heat as low as possible.  Add the brown sugar and balsamic, and continue to cook about 15 minutes longer, or until the onions are soft and becoming jammy and caramelized.

To serve, mound some polenta in a bowl, top with the onions, and sprinkle with some walnuts.

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Capsule

Here's what I'd like to do: box up these cookies in an airtight, space-age time capsule that's completely impenetrable to mold spores and even the most infinitesimal amounts of moisture, and bury them in the backyard.  Then, when my kids are in their late thirties, they'll torture their own future children by bringing them to the house.

Look! This is where we grew up!

Here's the front yard where we'd run through the sprinklers!  And there's the spot where the lemon tree grew!

Then they'd break into the house, or maybe somehow jimmy the door open with a credit card or whatever kind of device one uses to break into houses.  A crowbar?  So they break into the house and sneak up the stairs.

Look! This was our room!  You can still see the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on the ceiling!

Yeah! And here was our playroom! See on the wall?  There's where Mom and Dad measured us to see how tall we grew!

And then they'd slip back down the stairs and out the back door.  And they'd go to that spot, somehow remembering, without really knowing why, but they'd be drawn to that spot and several shovels would magically appear.  (Shut up.)

So then my boys and their various and sundry children (lots of children!  but not too many children...) would start digging, and they'd dig and dig and dig, and sweat would bead up on their foreheads and they'd get good and covered with dirt and grime, and the sun would shine and the people who owned the house wouldn't be home yet (this part is key) so they'd keep on digging.

And then finally, the littlest kid, the youngest of the pack, would scream, I FOUND SOMETHING!

And they'd all dig, dig, dig, and up would come the space-age time capsule, and they'd brush off the dirt like wee little archeologists, and pry open the seal or the lock or whatever, and they'd open the box.

They'd stare at the cookies. And their eyes would stretch wide, and maybe Andrew's or Alex's, or both, would well up with happy, nostalgic tears.  They'd pass around the cookies, and there would be one for everyone, and they'd all bite into them at the same time.

She was a good mom, my kids would tell their children.

She really loved us.

...

Recipe for Thin and Crispy Almond Chocolate Chip Cookies

These cookies are thin, crispy and caramelly, and the recipe makes a whole lot (6 dozen) so feel free to halve it or keep several dozen frozen scoops of dough in the freezer and bake up only what you need.  I used Marcona almonds because I had a huge tin, but feel free to use regular almonds (which are much cheaper).  If using regular ones, please add 3/4 teaspoon salt to the batter.

Makes 72 cookies

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 cup almond meal
1-1/2 teaspoons baking soda
3 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1-1/4 cups brown sugar (light or dark)
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 teaspoons almond extract
1-1/2 cups dark chocolate chips (semisweet are fine, too)
1 cup chopped Marcona almonds, or regular almonds (see headnote for advice on salt)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Line several cookie sheets with parchment or Silpats.

Sift the two flours, almond meal, and baking soda into a large bowl.  Press as much of the almond meal through the mesh as you can, then dump any stubborn bits that remain right on top of the sifted ingredients.  Set aside.

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream the butter on medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes.  Slowly add the white sugar and beat another minute; scrape the sides of the bowl.  Then slowly add the brown sugar and beat some more.

With the mixer on low speed, add the eggs, one at a time, raising the speed after each addition to fully incorporate them.  Beat in the two extracts. Scrape the sides. 

Scoop in the sifted dry ingredients in three additions, beating after each addition and scraping the sides of the bowl as necessary.  Finally, stir in the chocolate chips and chopped almonds.

Use a 1-1/2" scoop to portion the dough rounds onto the prepared cookie sheets, leaving plenty of space between each cookie as these tend to spread significantly.  Bake for about 15 minutes (check after 12 minutes to prevent burning), or until the cookies are golden brown, thin, and dark around the edges.  Make sure you get good color on these, even if you have to leave them in an extra two or three minutes.  Cool completely on the baking sheet before transferring them to a wire rack or serving platter.  Repeat with remaining batter.

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