I made peanut butter cookies yesterday that are excruciatingly yummy and just like my mother used to make. That should come as no surprise since it's her recipe, although, according to the notation on her recipe card, she got it from a bag of Gold Medal flour.
My mother believed it was necessary to have something sweet on hand at all times, for dessert after supper, to have with coffee if somebody dropped in, or just to have when the demands of a sweet tooth could no longer be resisted. To that end, she baked something every couple days -- pies, cakes, coffee cakes, quick breads, and, of course, cookies. In order to maintain acceptable levels of on-hand cookies, she often hid them to keep us kids (and Dad) from gobbling them all up.
My brother and I sometimes made a game of finding the hidden cookies and taking one each (that we knew she'd never miss). One afternoon when she had gone out to the store, we decided to find the cookies we knew she had baked that morning. We looked in all the usual places and came up empty. We broadened our search, looking into every cupboard, every drawer, even the bread box. Nothing.
When she came home, we complained of being absolutely starved and in need of a snack, and she said, "Well, why don't you have a couple cookies?" and we said, "Okay, but where are they?" and she said, "In the cookie jar, of course."
Oh.
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