SA-TIE-YUH

Trying to Learn Family Recipes With My Jewish Mother

Lesson One: Grandma Helen’s Thumbprint Cookies

Not to be morbid, but I’m realizing my mother won’t be around forever and I’d love to get some of the family recipes on paper.

There used to be some hand-scrawled recipe cards, but they disappeared. That’s okay — we can just bake together and I’ll take down all the info I need to recreate the dishes of my childhood.

I know exactly where to start: Thumbprint Cookies. They weren’t my favorite, but they have a special nostalgia.

When Mom’s Uber — or Ooh-buh as she says, drops her off — I have all of the measuring cups ready; 1 cup, 1/2 cup, 1/3 cup, 1/4 cup, and of course my handy spoons from 1/8 tsp to the big ol’ tablespoon.

Okay, Mom tells me. We’re going to start with a tablespoon of oil.

I hand her the tablespoon and she gives me that same look as when I told her I wanted to study acting. She digs in my silverware drawer and finally comes up with a soup spoon.

“A table spoon,” my mother repeats slowly as if I had handed her a wrench.

It’s going to be a long afternoon.

Mom fills up the soup spoon once, then again, and finally adds about a third of a spoonful, but only pours in a small portion of it. I watch, dumbfounded. I try to understand the quantity by pouring a soup spoon of oil into an actual tablespoon to see what the measurement would be. But Mom starts to yell about being a waster, so I stop.

Next we have eggs. Two of them. See? It’s fine. This will be fine.

“Grab the flour,” Mom says and I hand her the large Tupperware container. She disregards the little scoop inside, turns the Tupperware upside down and drops some into the mixing bowl without measuring.

“Perfect,” she says, and I nod, because it would be dangerous not to.

Sugar is next — I have it on the counter ready for her.

Mom opens the cabinet again. What could she possibly need? Everything related to baking is already out. She finally pulls out a small soup bowl. She fills it up halfway with sugar.

“How much sugar is that?” I ask her, pen in hand, because I am going to get this recipe in writing even if it kills me.

“It’s the amount needed for the cookies,” she says, looking at me like I’m an idiot.

On second thought, it is definitely going to kill me.

Mom opens the fridge. Here we go again.

“Where’s the margarine?” she asks.

I tell her I don’t keep margarine in the house. She’s even more heartbroken than when she realized I was serious about studying acting.

“How are we supposed to make these cookies?” she asks.

I point to the butter and she clutches her heart.“You’re going to give yourself clogged arteries.”

“Mom,” I say. “Margarine is not actually good for you. Butter, at least, is a good fat.”

Mom does not speak to me for the rest of the afternoon. She melts the butter in the microwave until it’s boiling, then pours a light drizzle while shaking her head.

When all of the ingredients have been mixed, we scoop them into little nuggets and lay them across the baking sheet.

“Can I do the thumbprints?” I ask excitedly.

She tells me, “No. It’s Covid!”

She uses the handle of a fork to make the thumbprints, which is actually a great and even more sanitary idea. Then she lets me drop little bits of no-sugar-added jam in the indentations.

“Not too much,” she says.

When the cookies look perfect, Mom heads over to the oven and examines it for a long time as if she has never seen the number choices before.

“What temperature?” I ask her.

“375,” she says slowly in a way I don’t trust. But how much does a number matter; the cookies just need to get hot enough to bake, right? After all, we’re not trying to win any awards here, we’re simply trying to recreate the happiest memories of my childhood, via food. No pressure.

The cookies come out delicious and I still have no idea how to bake them.

I put Mom in an Uber to take her home and I think about what we’ll cook together next.