The Cookie Exchange Berta's Table - Intermission and Recipes
The Cookie Exchange
Berta's Table - Intermission and Recipes
Berta’s kitchen had never been small, but tonight it shrank to the size of a heartbeat—then expanded again, folding in the impossible like a grandmother’s apron has room for every stray button and broken dream.
The table groaned under platters no mortal stomach could finish. Cinnamon and cardamom hung so thick in the air you could chew it. Every burner on the old stove blazed, every kettle sang, and the window above the sink had long since surrendered to steam. Outside, the December snow fell in soft benedictions, blanketing the land like a quilt stitched from forgotten prayers.
They called themselves the Holes of Thy Donkey’s Cheeks Army, a name bestowed in 1987 after Brother Jerome misread a Latin hymn while half-drunk on dandelion wine and declared the line “in foraminibus petrae” actually meant “in the holes of thy donkey’s cheeks”-kinda. It stuck. Saints forgive; grandmothers never forget. And tonight, the army had swelled with reinforcements: the grannies from the river’s edge, those iron-hearted women who rode through frost and shadow at the whisper of a child’s fear, their braids flying like battle standards, their quilts heavy with the weight of a hundred crossings.
Berta presided at the head, flour in her silver braid like fresh snow. To her right sat St. Thérèse of Lisieux, sleeves rolled high, piping perfect roses onto sugar cookies with the serene precision of someone who once scattered flowers before the Pope. She hummed “Panis Angelicus” off-key and didn’t care, her small fingers dusted white as she traded glances with Josephina.
Josephina—leader of the grannies, braid coiled like a serpent ready to strike—had arrived first, swinging down from her imagined mare with boots that hit the frost-crisp linoleum without a sound. Her eyes, already wet from tears she’d felt before they fell, now crinkled at the edges as she murmured against Berta’s shoulder, “We felt the river rise. Felt every tear those little ones never let fall.” Now she kneaded dough for Mexican wedding cookies, her low chuckle calming the room like it had the riot of frightened children by the water. Beside her, Emma Dale hummed a lullaby that once hushed entire hospital wards, unfolding quilts over the backs of chairs like banners of welcome turned to warmth. Her lemon shortbread, crisp as autumn leaves and laced with rosemary from her garden, filled the air with the promise of hearth fires yet to come.
St. Rita (patron of impossible things) had commandeered the oven, sliding tray after tray of her famous espresso-chocolate crinkles—dark as midnight secrets, crisp-edged and molten-centered. Every time one batch emerged, she kissed the hot metal and whispered, “For the desperate ones, darling,” as though the cookies themselves were small brown miracles dusted with sea salt. Catherine Moreheart, bringing up the rear as always, leaned against the counter with her owl-doll tucked under one arm like a talisman, her stubborn silence outlasting the clatter of rolling pins. She didn’t speak much—hadn’t since the steerage ships and the salt of oceans crossed with babies on hips—but her hands moved sure as prayer, shaping thumbprint cookies filled with raspberry jam, each indent a fierce mark of “no child left behind.” Her eyes, shining with unshed tears, scanned the room like she was still watching for stragglers in the dark.
The two Marys (The Sacred and The Scarlet) worked in beautiful opposition at the island. The Sacred measured with the calm certainty of someone who once held God in her arms; nothing was ever half a teaspoon off as she blended butter and lavender for her floral shortbread. The Scarlet, red scarf slipping from her hair like spilled wine, flung ingredients like a woman who had once poured perfume worth a year’s wages over sacred feet and never regretted it. Their joint lemon-ricotta cookies—zested bright and ricotta-soft—tasted like sunrise and forgiveness, passed hand to hand with a wink and a “Try this, love; it mends more than it sweetens.”
Brother Jerome stirred a cauldron of molasses dough big enough to baptize a cat, his bawdy medieval drinking songs in Latin clashing gloriously with the grannies’ murmured Yiddish blessings. He swapped verses with Rita when he thought no one was listening, then bellowed a toast: “To the donkey’s cheeks—and the holes that let the light through!” The room erupted in cackles, Josephina’s chuckle the deepest, Emma’s hum turning it to harmony.
The unnamed ones—the dozens who had outlived their names, countries, and griefs—filled every corner, different as winter and wildfire. One with desert sage in her hair shaped anise-pistachio biscotti, hard enough to dip in coffee and dunk a devil’s bargains. Another, barefoot with a knife tucked in her braid (just in case), rolled out gingerbread fierce as her prayers, cutting shapes of running horses and open hands. They spoke in curses or half-forgotten tongues, or not at all, their language the one of small, trembling hands reaching up in the dark. Ovens hot, kettles singing, the scent of fresh bread and cedar smoke wove through the cinnamon haze—these were the grannies who refused to let a child fall, and tonight, they baked as if the world depended on it.
The doorbell never rang. Saints and grannies simply arrived, stepping out of the pantry or materializing beside the fridge with Tupperware in hand, their church hats askew and Sunday shoes traded for slippers. The kitchen accommodated them the way oceans accommodate ships, walls breathing out to make room for the army’s soft hands and iron hearts.
On the windowsill, Selene the snow owl watched with luminous yellow eyes, her feathers fluffed against the chill. Kelly the chocolate Siamese sat beside her, tail curled neatly around her paws, both of them pretending they weren’t waiting for dropped crumbs—or perhaps for the moment when a silver-haired wanderer would pause outside, drawn by the glow.
At midnight exactly, Berta clapped once. Silence fell like a curtain, broken only by the pop of cooling trays.
She lifted a single cookie (plain, round, un-iced, but stamped with the faint outline of wheat fields) and held it to the light.
“This one,” she said, voice rough with smoke and tenderness, “goes to the boy who will walk out of the alley tonight and find The Exchange for the first time. May it taste like the moment before everything changes—like running without shadows, like a hand reaching back.”
Thérèse kissed it, petals of icing on her lips. Rita blessed it with a flick of espresso grounds. The Marys breathed over it like incense, lavender and lemon mingling. Brother Jerome made the sign of the cross with a dough-covered finger, leaving a perfect white print on the golden crust. Josephina pressed her thumb to its center, murmuring, “For the tears we felt first.” Emma hummed over it, soft as a ward’s hush. Catherine marked the edge with her owl-doll’s wing, silent but sure.
Then they wrapped it in wax paper, tied it with red thread from the Magdalene’s scarf, and set it on the sill between owl and cat. Selene blinked once; Kelly’s tail twitched in approval.
Outside, snow began to fall (soft, deliberate, the kind that knows exactly where it’s needed). And somewhere in the alleys, a silver-haired man with two small braids felt warmth bloom in his coat pocket, though he wouldn’t discover why until much later—until the rhythm of his steps led him to platinum letters and open doors.
Inside, the Holes of Thy Donkey’s Cheeks Army feasted. Platters passed like holy relics: wedding cookies crumbling to almond dust on tongues that had tasted exile; shortbread shattering like fragile peace; crinkles melting into confessions. Laughter rose, low and triumphant, the grannies’ voices weaving through the saints’ hymns—curses and carols, Yiddish and Latin, all one language now.
The children would feast tomorrow. Tonight, the keepers of the dark feasted first.
*Brother Jerome tested and tasted all recipes, but unfortunately he has been silent in his report back.
Recipes from the Feast (Pulled from the army's battered tins—simple enough for sinners, holy enough for saints. Yields: enough to share, or hoard against the shadows.)
Josephina’s Mexican Wedding Cookies For the tears felt before they fall.
- 1 cup unsalted butter, softened
- 1/2 cup powdered sugar (plus extra for rolling)
- 1 tsp vanilla extract
- 2 cups all-purpose flour
- 1 cup finely chopped pecans (or walnuts, if the pecans ran off with the children)
- Pinch of cinnamon (because everything needs a whisper of fire)
Cream butter and sugar until light. Beat in vanilla. Mix in flour and nuts until dough forms—don’t overwork; let it hold its secrets. Chill 30 minutes. Roll into 1-inch balls, bake at 350°F for 12-15 minutes until set but pale. Cool slightly, then roll in powdered sugar twice (once hot, once cool, for that double blessing). Yield: 3 dozen. Pair with black tea strong as a grandmother’s stare.
Emma Dale’s Rosemary-Lemon Shortbread To hush the wards, inside and out.
- 2 cups all-purpose flour (1:1 for Gluten Free All Purpose Flour)
- 3/4 cup powdered sugar
- 1 cup cold unsalted butter, cubed
- Zest of 2 lemons
- 2 Tbsp fresh rosemary, finely chopped (from the garden that outlives us all)
- 1/4 tsp salt
Pulse flour, sugar, zest, rosemary, and salt in a food processor. Add butter; pulse until pea-sized crumbs form. Press into a greased 9x13 pan, prick with a fork like testing faith. Bake at 325°F for 25-30 minutes until golden edges. Cool, cut into fingers or wedges. Yield: 24 pieces. Dunk in milk; let it remind you of home.
Catherine Moreheart’s Raspberry Thumbprints For the stragglers, marked and remembered.
- 1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
- 1/4 cup powdered sugar
- 1 cup all-purpose flour (1:1 Gluten Free All Purpose Flour)
- 1/4 tsp salt
- 1/2 tsp vanilla
- 1/3 cup raspberry jam (or whatever red preserves the heart hoards)
Beat butter and sugar until fluffy. Add vanilla. Sift in flour and salt; mix to dough. Roll into 1-inch balls, place on parchment-lined sheet. Indent centers with thumb (or owl-doll beak, if handy). Bake at 350°F for 10-12 minutes. Cool, fill indents with jam. Yield: 2 dozen. Guard the edges—they hold the fierce tears.
St. Rita’s Espresso-Chocolate Crinkles For the impossible, dusted in salt.
- 1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
- 2 cups granulated sugar
- 1/2 cup vegetable oil
- 4 large eggs
- 2 tsp vanilla
- 2 cups all-purpose flour (1:1 Gluten Free All Purpose Flour)
- 2 tsp baking powder
- 1/2 tsp salt
- 1/2 cup strong brewed espresso (cooled)
- 1 cup powdered sugar (for rolling)
- Flaky Dead Sea (if you have it) salt (for the desperate ones)
Whisk cocoa, sugar, and oil. Beat in eggs one at a time, then vanilla and espresso. Stir in flour, baking powder, and salt. Chill dough 2 hours (or overnight, for deeper miracles). Scoop into balls, roll in powdered sugar. Bake at 350°F for 12 minutes—cracks will form like prayers answered. Sprinkle salt on warm tops. Yield: 3 dozen. Brew more coffee; miracles demand company.
The Marys’ Lemon-Ricotta Cookies Sunrise in every bite, forgiveness in the crumb.
- 2 cups all-purpose flour (1:1 Gluten Free All Purpose Flour)
- 1 tsp baking powder
- 1/2 tsp salt
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- Zest of 2 lemons
- 1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
- 1 large egg
- 1 cup whole-milk ricotta (drained if weepy)
- 1 tsp vanilla
- For glaze: 1 cup powdered sugar + 2 Tbsp lemon juice
Cream sugar, zest, and butter. Beat in egg, ricotta, and vanilla. Add dry ingredients. Drop by spoonfuls onto sheets. Bake at 350°F for 15 minutes until edges golden. Cool. Whisk glaze, drizzle. Yield: 3 dozen. Let the glaze run wild—forgiveness isn’t neat.
Brother Jerome’s Molasses Gems Big as baptisms, sweet as bawdy songs.
- 1 cup unsalted butter, softened
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1 cup molasses (blackstrap for the Franciscans among us)
- 2 large eggs
- 4 cups all-purpose flour (1:1 Gluten Free All Purpose Flour)
- 1 tsp baking soda
- 1 tsp ground ginger
- 1 tsp cinnamon
- 1/2 tsp cloves
- 1/4 tsp salt
Beat butter and sugar fluffy. Mix in molasses and eggs. Sift dry ingredients; stir in. Chill 1 hour. Roll out, cut into shapes (horses for the grannies, crosses for Jerome). Bake at 350°F for 8-10 minutes. Yield: 4 dozen. Frost with royal icing if pious; leave plain if you’re singing Latin at dawn.
The Unnamed Grannies’ Anise-Pistachio Biscotti Hard as exile, twice-dipped for the long haul.
- 2 cups all-purpose flour (1:1 Gluten Free All Purpose Flour)
- 1 tsp baking powder
- 1/4 tsp salt
- 3/4 cup granulated sugar
- 3 large eggs
- 1 tsp anise extract (or crushed seeds, if the desert calls)
- 1 cup shelled pistachios, chopped
- For glaze: 1 cup powdered sugar + 1 Tbsp anise liqueur or milk
Beat eggs and sugar until pale. Add anise. Sift in dry; fold in nuts. Shape into logs on parchment, bake at 350°F for 25 minutes. Cool slightly, slice diagonally, bake cut-side down 10 more minutes until crisp. Dip ends in glaze. Yield: 3 dozen. Dunk in coffee black as the crossing; let it anchor you.
*when using a gluten free flour please remember not all are created equal. If in doubt, start with less, do a test batch, and then alter as needed.
Author’s Note: The grannies ride in from the river’s edge, because who else answers a child’s whisper but those who’ve outlived the storms? Recipes tested on saints (they approve). If your kitchen calls an army tonight, save one cookie for the alley-wanderer. #GrannyArmy #SpoonieFeast
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