Butter fingers

Have you read The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood? The handmaids (basically sex slaves; viable uteruses to re-populate the pollution-ridden earth) steal the foil wrapped pats of butter from the table. They hide them in their shoes and, when they are alone in their rooms at night, they rub the butter (half-melted by now) into their hands and face as quiet resistance. Their last form of vanity. I had a history teacher once who said (referring to Saddam Hussein's recent capture from that hole somewhere) 

"I would rather die in a HAIL OF FIRE than be found in some hole like a loser. WOULD YOU DIE FOR WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN? I would."

She would too. Ms. Tener, you're still awesome, with your curtain printed pants like Maria from the Sound of Music (or more recently, Gwen Stefani in her Wind It Up music video, but that's an awful, awful song). I only started eating almonds because Ms. Tener told me that loss of iron due to menstruation could be made up for by eating lots of iron-rich almonds!

It's my brother's birthday tomorrow, and I haven't gotten him a gift yet. Since I won't be getting him one in the next few hours, I'm baking him a batch of cookies to tide him over to Sunday when he'll receive his real present. I know I baked him cookies like 2 days ago, but nothing lasts here.

Correction: my Dad eats everything in sight, and my boyfriend, Chris, knows where to look.

Anyways, this is adapted from Ga's (great grandmother to you) old recipe, and she was really not afraid of butter. Or margarine. Or shortening. Actually, she was pretty stoked on any spreadable fat. Bacon drippings. Lard. And since my hands are so dry (chalky from flour floating the bakery–you can't get away from it) they sucked all the cookie butter up, and now I'm leaving a trail of grease stains.

*Quick side note: grease stains, or any other kind of stain, are important to have on recipes. No point in passing on a recipe card or book that hasn't been loved up and spilled on. People will assume you never made anything from the book you're bequeathing.

Can you tell I'm trying out your patience? Whatever. Scroll to the recipe if you want. I interest myself. MYSELF. Sigh.

You should know first: this is not for those looking to AVOID sugar-comas. You may block an artery or six.

Ga Cookies

Adapted slightly to avoid being haunted. Ga's coldest dish was dissaproval with pursed lips.

1 1/2 cups of butter or some other meltable fat, melted.

1 cup of white sugar

1 cup of brown sugar

3 eggs

2 cups of All Purpose flour

2 tsp baking soda

2 tsp salt*

1 cup of coconut

2 tsp cinnamon

4 cups of rolled oats

*Because I am trendy, I eased off on the salt, opting to sprinkle the tops of the cookies with fleur de sel after baking as I've been seeing on Tastespotting for some time. Makes you all SHIVERY. Like a NIBBLE ON YOUR EAR, except its on your tongue. Ooooh I know. Gettin' me all hot (in the kitchen). But you don't need much. These are your doctor's favorite cookies. Don't show him the recipe.

True Ga form would be a one-pot affair. Separate the wet and dry if you're worried, but she was a woman of few worries, other than what soggy clod the dining room at her rest home would be serving for dinner that night. She wrote letters to the chefs describing in articulate detail the degree of shit they dared serve her, but for the most part I think the cooks were offended, whereas her intent was to motivate.