Oooooooo that glorious seven-layer cookie my mother perfected over the years. Its chocolatey, coconutty, butterscotchy, graham crackery, nutty, mushy-crumbly-moistness is killer on the thighs, but these days, who gives a toss? These wonderful bits of scrumminess were/are only concocted during the holidays, of course, when one (I think) is supremely silly if he or she is actually Calorie Counting like an obsessive.
Both of my sisters have become adept at the seven-layer cookie creation. Sometimes it frustrates me to see them so good at it, even better than my mom ever was. A part of me thinks they’re doing out of homage to her. Another part of me thinks it’s this sense of keeping family Christmas tradition going, long after the going went rough and then some. Yet another part of me is just flat-out envious. I’ve tried and I’ve failed with every other recipe I’ve ever created or tried, and I’ve made total SACRILEGE out of Mom’s seven-layer pieces of Mouth Manna.
(Here’s what they should’ve been like. Don’t they look like sweet, gooey bricks of tasty deliciousness?)
(And here’s my attempt to create them because I am clearly delusional.)
I can make a few edible concoctions, some of them quite good.
I’ve perfected the art of a pretty good white sangria (always use sparkling and raspberries and citrus):
Anything else though, and, well, I destroy it all — undercook or overcook it, you take your pick, and I’ve done it every time. Still, homemade — handmade, that is — foodstuff is always world’s better than anything automated, anything pre-packaged, and if I had the knack and patience for it (and for myself), I’d certainly cook more often than I do.
As for now, I certainly don’t mind it when others who cook very well and enjoy it cook for me, too. I love love LOVE the hell out of food, all food cult snobbery aside.