The Furious Spinner

Tonight after dinner, after a wonderful day spent in the wild (semi-wild) and lounging around with my sweetie, I made cookies. I used a recipe I've had since I was sixteen years old. I thought I had posted this recipe here before, but I searched and couldn't find it. My high school sweetheart was Lebanese-American. His grandmother was an honest to goodness babushka. (Yes, I understand that's a Russian or Slavic term, yet I learned that word from Jimi when he described his grandmother. It was kind of a description of what she wore and what her name was.) Jimi did not look Lebanese: he was light-skinned and blondish. Most of his brothers and sisters were dark and exotic-looking.

It was all exotic to me. I was fascinated. I was a small town girl accustomed to Irish-Americans. Jimi's father was Lebanese. His mother was Irish-American, like most of us in our small town. His father was patriarchal, cold, quiet, and I knew my "mouthiness" bugged him. Neither of his parents liked me. When I look back at it now, I wonder what on Earth could they have disliked—except the fact that I had a mind of my own? I was a good Catholic girl saving myself for marriage, bound for college, involved in school activities. I didn't smoke or do drugs. I was about as “virtuous” as you could get during the seventies. My dresses were short, but then it was the age of the mini-skirt. I had to reach up to get into my locker; I would have Jimi stand behind me, so I didn't flash my underwear to the whole school as I got my books. (I later learned that the group of boys down the hallway who always congregated kitty-corner from my locker between classes waited there just to see me reach up.) This was back in the days when schools had dress codes. Literal dress codes: girls had to wear dresses. It changed while I was in high school, but I forget what year.

So back to Jimi's parental units. They didn't like me. I was Jimi's first girlfriend, and I had opinions about everything. I wasn't quiet. To them, I wasn't respectful because I offered my opinion when asked a question. Probably even when I wasn't asked. Then one day I found a chocolate chip recipe in a magazine. I can't remember which mag or why I decided to try it, but I did. It was called Honey Chocolate Chip Cookies.

This was the recipe (or something like it):

2 cups of flour sifted before measuring
1 cup honey
2/3 cups butter
2 eggs
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp real vanilla extract
1 cup of chocolate chips
Cream the honey and butter together. Then whip the eggs and add to the creamed mixture, along with vanilla. Sift baking soda and flour together. Mix liquid and dry ingredients together. Add chocolate chips. Bake at 375° until done (about 8-10 minutes).

I think I made the first batch for Jimi, and he took some home, and his father liked them. (I've made cookies from this recipe or one like it for the last 30 plus years, and no one has ever disliked the cookies.) So I made Jimi’s father a batch of cookies. Suddenly, he could tolerate me. He even smiled when I was around, joked a bit. I told Jimi it was because I had done something that a traditional woman would do: I baked. I thought it was quite amusing. This little bit of baked bribery did nothing to win Jimi's mother over to my side. Jimi's grandmother—who couldn't speak English despite decades of living in Michigan—loved me; his father tolerated me, but his mother was still suspicious.

She shouldn't have been worried. We were basically innocent. Besides, Jimi wasn't someone who was influenced easily. I always liked my boyfriends and girlfriends to have minds of their own. Like most teenagers in love, Jimi and I did some strange things. After we had been going out for a couple of years, I used to wake up in the middle of the night, climb out my upstairs bedroom window, hang down and then jump to the ground, then steal my parents' car and drive to Jimi’s house. He slept downstairs in the same room with one of his brothers. I would park down the road, then hurry in the dark to his house, walk through the dark garage, and open the unlocked door to the downstairs. I would then tiptoe through the darkened downstairs to Jimi's room. When I look back at it now, I think, what on Earth was I doing? What if my parents had heard me leave in the car? What if Jimi's parents had come downstairs? I vaguely remember falling to sleep and waking up when it was light. I had to hide in the closet until Jimi checked to see if the coast was clear. Then I hurried out the garage and down the road to the car. I should point out that the car was a Volkswagen. When you think of Volkswagen, what do you think?....Noise. It was extremely noisy. (I wonder if his brother ever knew I was there?)

Anyway, don't worry, I'm not getting nostalgic or lusting after old boyfriends (good grief, we would have killed each other had we stayed together–nothing in common except our past and Mario thinks these stories are funny), but every time I bake these cookies, I think of Jimi, high school, and his father and that old saying, "You catch more flies with honey..."

Of course, I have altered this recipe over time. This is what I did tonight:

2 cups barley flour
1/4 olive oil
1/4 maple syrup
2 eggs (or 1 egg plus 1 T water)
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp real vanilla extract
1/2 cup raisins
1/2 cup sugar-free chocolate chips
Mix the honey and oil together. Then whip eggs and add to the honey and oil, along with the vanilla. Sift baking soda and flour together. Mix liquid and dry ingredients together. Add chocolate chips and raisins. Bake at 375° until done (about 12-15 minutes).

I've made these cookies many times without the chocolate chips, by the way. Tonight Mario and I ate them while watching a movie and drinking Zen tea (hot water).

Now I'm high on chocolate and caffeine. I'm giggling, too, remembering the teenager who was me driving that noisy VW bus (or car) down those long dark roads.

Glad I don't have to bribe anyone with cookies any more, or drive in the dark to cuddle with my honey. Speaking of which, time for bed. 1 comments

1 Comments:

Another great recipe and a really good story. I had a similar experience with a boyfriend's mother really disliking me to the point of never acknowleding my existence. She need not have worried either. I'm a Lesbian and living a fantastic life with an extraordinairy woman. He never stood a chance. ;-) Thanks for sharing!

By  Joanne, at 5:30 AM  

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