Cinnamon. Sugar. Airy, fluffy, buttery, goodness. Aka . . . snickerdoodles.
< insert contented sigh here >
I take one bite of a snickerdoodle and am instantly back in Mom’s kitchen–sitting on the bar stool with my elbows on the counter, swinging my feet, talking to her about who-knows-what. Even when I was too little to bake, Mom would let me stand on the stool and roll the dough in the cinnamon sugar. Much cinnamon sugar-covered dough was snitched. 🙂 This snickerdoodles recipe is easily one of my family’s top requested recipes.
Growing up, my family’s kitchen was definitely the center of the house. We did not have a TV on our main floor until I was in high school–our family was more of the board game type. We did homework at the counter, family dinner at the table, crafts, games, whining about our day. Whenever I go home to visit, we usually end up scattered about the kitchen in bar stools and dining chairs catching up on anything and everything.
When I moved out to Santa Clara on my own, I found the kitchen lacking. (For more reasons than the 2 square feet of counter space, small refrigerator, and lack of dishwasher…) But it was no longer the center of everything. Mostly it was the source of much frustration, since I had an over-achiever for a smoke detector. Baking anything–including this snickerdoodles recipe–often resulted in me standing on my futon fanning the detector with Women’s Health.
Two moves and a puppy-dog later, we are still in an apartment BUT . . . < insert drum roll > . . . it has a FABULOUS kitchen. Marble countertops, lots of cabinet space, a dishwasher. What more could a girlfriend want?
Well, girlfriend wants that feeling. Le sigh. That feeling that makes you want to dump your jacket on the floor to drive Dad crazy, dump your purse on the dining table to drive Dad extra crazy, nab snickerdoodles off the cooling rack, and slump onto a stool at the counter. Because you are home.
My theory is time + imitation baking = feeling. Of course it will take time. More times I drop my stuff in a heap on the floor so that I can catch the flying ball of fluffernutter puppy that is flying towards me when I get home. More times of David baking his frozen pizzas and me complaining about how the crust drops to the bottom to burn and stink. (Hopefully no more times of me trying to swipe said pieces out with a paper towel while the oven was on and shrieking like a banshee when the paper towel spontaneously caught fire.)
The other half of my theory is that by recreating many of the recipes I grew up with in my kitchen, my kitchen will have those memories, too. Enter said snickerdoodles recipe. Cue music. Annnndd…..
“Bring back . . . that lovin’ feelin’, whoa-oa-oa-oa that lovin’ feelin’ . . . ”