Pfeffernusse

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Pfeffernusse are soft, molasses ginger cookies. The recipe comes from my mother-in-law’s family. They farmed in rural Ontario and my sailor has fond memories of childhood holidays at his grandma’s farm.

Pfeffernusse may be German, or it may be a long-standing typo from generations ago.

Whatever their origins, these little cookies are delicious.

My sailor grew up enjoying them at Christmas time. I’m pro family traditions so I thought I’d whip up a batch for my boy, who has come to expect homemade cookies. (I don’t want to think about the disappointed looks he gave me when I admitted we had to make do with cookies from a box last week because I didn’t have the energy for baking.)

The batter is pretty easy to throw together and I kind of enjoyed rolling the dough balls in my hands. The butter and spices made my palms soft and fragrant, an unexpected benefit of this tradition! As soon as they come out of the oven, the cookies are rolled in sugar, which is supposed to melt slightly to form a glaze-like coating. Mine just caked on top like dandruff, but they still tasted good if a little drier than they should be.

Alghough passable, they’re not the gold standard of pfeffernusse–ones my sailor makes every Christmas. (Yes, on top of all his other talents, he’s a competent baker!)

But guess what–it doesn’t matter if my pfeffernusse is dry and crusty because I’ll be enjoying some genuine sailor-quality baked goods before too long!

Winner, Winner–Chicken Dinner!

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A quiet weekend, but that’s about all I have the energy for these days.

Lots of time in the kitchen, but I enjoy cooking when it’s not the weeknight dinner scramble.

We ran out of cookies and my boy requested a new batch, so baking was first on the agenda. This time instead of chocolate chips (which I adore), I used Reese Peanut Butter chips in my go to Martha Stewart recipe. My boy loves anything peanut butter flavoured, but I’m not wild about these chips. Hopefully this means I won’t end up eating all his cookies. In the total absence of self-restraint, I have to bake treats I don’t like too much.

The highlight of my kitchen adventures? A roast chicken with parmesan potatoes and baby carrots for Sunday dinner. Nothing makes the house feel as cosy on a rainy afternoon as the scent of some unfortunate creature roasting slowly in the oven. As usual, the dog parked herself in front of the stove, sniffing and drooling. I think she expects the ill-fated hen to stage a break out. It hasn’t happened yet, and I’ve tripped over the dog more times than I can remember, but I don’t have the heart to shoo her away and destroy her dream of meat that’s as big as she is.

With any luck, I’ve generated enough leftovers that I won’t have to do any major cooking until Wednesday or Thursday. If that happens, I’m the real chicken dinner winner.