peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

This peanut butter cookie recipe is my grandmother’s. I have her recipe card–stained with butter–written in her curly script. She made these cookies in the Great Depression. So not only are these suckers tasty, they are best served with a glass of American history.

Peanut Butter Cookies

• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 1 cup white sugar
• 1/2 cup peanut butter
• 1/4 cup melted butter
• 1 egg
• 1 cup flour
• 1/2 tsp. baking soda

Combine butter, peanut butter, sugars, eggs.  Add in baking soda, Then flour. Mix dough. Roll into balls and place onto parchment paper-line cookie trays. Flatten criss-cross with a fork (can dip fork into water so it doesn’t stick). Bake about 8-10 minutes in a 375 degree oven. I take them out a little early for chewy cookies.

Then I proceed to eat about seven. These Great Depression cookies are perfect for the anti-dieters.

Who knew that Bob Marley and my grandmother were actually alike?

At first glance, they were nearly opposite.

• He wore his hair in long dreadlocks. She wore her hair in short, rollered curls.
• He smoked weed. She pulled weeds.
• He was born in Jamaica in 1945. She was born in Iowa in 1906.
• He played Reggae on steel drums. She played church hymns on the piano.

My grandmother always reassured me, “Don’t worry, Honey. Everything will be all right.”

Much like Bob Marley’s song Three Little Birds, “Don’t worry about a thing. ‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.”

A good message to hear when I am feeling down and need a boost. And in a way, the song is as uplifting as a hymn.

When my husband and I were dating in college, he made me a mix tape (yeah, it was a cassette tape) with that song. Every time I hear Three Little Birds now, I smile and think about my husband and my sweet grandmother, who made me Cream of Wheat for breakfast with a smiley face. And I am reassured.

As a kid, Saturday nights were get-ready-for-church nights.

I would soak in the bubble bath, lingering until the water turned cold and the bubbles had vanished. Emerging, with my towel wrapped around my hair like a turban, and my nightgown that my Grandmother had laid out for me, I would join her at the kitchen table. Out came the tray of wonder. Her mirrored tray, with the golden handles, lined  with bottles of nail polish in all shades of pink. No red. No purple. Just pink.

Peachy Keen Pink. Pink Lemonade. Rose Blush. Pink Carnation.

What a choice! I made my selection. But what I liked most, was shaking the little glass bottle with the miniature beads inside. The mixing beads. They don’t have those in nail polish bottles anymore, do they?

My Grandmother would paint my nails. And while they dried, we watched The Lawrence Welk Show. It was our thing.

She would tuck me into the crisp, freshly-laundered floral sheets. She would turn the sheets inside out, so that the folded-over sheet showed “the pretty side,” A homemade quilt at my feet. I would say my nightly prayer, “Now I lay me fast to sleep…” The box fan was going full speed, humming, on a hot Summer night. My Grandmother would sleep next to me, smelling like cold cream with her freshly curled-sprayed-and-set hair in a hair net.

It was Saturday night. Time to get ready for church the next day. What I remember most were the sweet rituals and time well spent with my Grandmother.

Two pies down, two to go. As in: I have baked two pies so far and have two more to bake. I didn’t EAT two pies already. Silly. That’s for tomorrow!

Pies are so easy to buy. And they are cheap too.

I am no pie snob. I will eat any pie put in front of me.

What compels me to make these suckers from scratch? My Grandmother. She was a good baker and she passed those skills along to me. So, on this Thanksgiving Eve, I am baking pies from scratch because I am thankful that I had my Grandmother in my life for so many years and I carry her love inside of me.

And this is why I cut the cold butter into the flour and add ice cold water to make pie crusts. And this is why I fold the corn syrup with the butter and the pecans to make pecan pie. And this is why I search out new recipes for homemade chocolate fudge pie with Oreo crust. Because I want to.

Because even though I can easily buy pies–and I was a little tempted this year–I NEED to make these myself. And fill the kitchen with wonderful smells. And serve my family and guests a little bit of lovin’ from my Grandmother.

Happy Thanksgiving.