This Is Not Delicious

** IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE BLOGGER: This post is actually about how a certain class of cookie embodies the futile, broken dreams of Western civilization, but I take a really long time to get to the point. Sorry about that. In my defense, brevity might be the soul of wit but a didactic ramble is often its elaborate coffin, so, you know, have some respect. Also, writing about my doubleplus cute daughter is the only way I can smuggle in pictures that people actually want to look at and when you write blog posts this long it really is important to have pictures.** 

We've crossed a sad milestone here on Gumpen Village Street. It used to be that the child distinguished between things that were delicious and things that were disgusting. Now she recognizes that a lot of stuff is just...kind of okay. And I'm sad about it, because it is the beginning of the end of innocence.  

Waffles are delicious...for now.

There was a time when all food was good. Then she started rejecting stuff on the grounds that it was "yucky", "disgusting," or "spicy" -- more recently, "sour" or "nasty". These judgments are delivered with a look of horror, a grasping of the tongue and sometimes tears and even spitting. 

But at least it was cute. Like the rosemary incident. One dinner a couple months ago Noodle was tucking into a fresh bowl of pasta with tomato sauce, which she loves, when she froze. Mid-bite. 

Dammit, I thought. I knew it. 

"This is a stick," the Noodle said to me with distate, holding up a single, tiny rosemary leaf. 

"It's rosemary," I said. "It's an herb." 

Noodles with sticks. This photo is a poor recreation of the offending dish.

She peered into her bowl. "No, this is a stick." She went in like a monkey looking for fleas. "Look! Other stick."

She held each leaf up demonstratively before smearing it onto the table. "Stick," she said. "Stick. Stick." You stupid, stick-hiding fiend, she thought to herself. It was a long dinner. 

But in the weeks since she turned two, there is a third, sadder category of food: Stuff she'll eat but without pleasure. 

Rice crackers, for example. Our go-to playground snack. One recent day she looked up at me, rice dust on her lips, and noted: "This...this is not really delicious, Mommy." And then with a hint of sorrow she polished off the rest. 

Or last week. She was eating my soup and seemed to be enjoying it, so I went fishing for compliments. "Mmm, is it yummy?" I asked. "No," she said with a shrug, "It's not really yummy." And kept eating. 

In fact, the only things that she finds delicious are, I'm afraid, things that everyone finds delicious, like ice cream and candy and cheese. (And plain black bread, for some reason, but I'm sure that'll end soon too.) 

And I guess this makes me sad because it means the way is prepared for her to experience disappointment. The let down. The long slow process of becoming jaded. Heck, one day soon she's going to realize that sorting rocks and riding the bus to the supermarket actually constitute a fairly shitty Saturday, and then what will I do?  

On the other hand, it's an achievement that she can distinguish between things that are delicious and things that we eat because they keep us regular. It means she has a sense of personal taste. Maybe she'll be less likely to buy in to stupid fads. 

Which brings me to the actual reason I started this blog post. Ready? 

MACAROONS ARE NOT DELICIOUS.* 

I mean, HELLLOOOOOOO. They are not delicious, and they do not even keep us regular. 

Destined to break your heart. Actually I never made this recipe, so I shouldn't judge, but I will.
No macaroons are actually delicious.

Ya. Macaroons. That is what this post is really about. Macaroons are the insipid, overplayed arm candy of the confection world. And if one more shitty schlock shop starts selling these by the checkout counter, I might scream. Is there no escape? Every airport. Every bourgie supermarket. Every bakery. 

Sure, they're pretty to look at. Their smooth, bland form allows for fun with color and indeed many are beautiful. It's obvious why the people have been Instagramming them ever since Instagram was invented. But #yum? Please. 

Et tu, McDonalds? REALLY? 

Macaroons are disappointment itself. To bite into a macaroon is to feel your hopes dashed and, worse, to feel like a sucker for having hoped your stupid hopes in the first place. How could you have believed that something so beautiful would actually taste good? 

A bit Orwellian, really.

Remember that scene in American Beauty (reach way back, guys) where Kevin Spacey's character finally gets the girl of his burning imagination and then it turns out she's just a clueless child onto whom the man has been projecting his remarkably lame fantasies? They didn't even need to make that whole movie. Alan Ball could have just passed around a box of macaroons and waited until everyone took a bite and been like, "That? That feeling you just had? That's what our movie is about". 

Macaroons are not disgusting (actually, I had a foie gras-stuffed one this summer that was SUPER disgusting, but that was an exception). They are just...nothing. They are okay. But you should only eat food that is just okay if it contains vitamins or supports your ability to poop. 

You should definitely not be paying (way) upwards of fifteen euros for six cookies that are just sort of okay. Bizarre liver-based varieties notwithstanding, your average macaroon is made out of egg whites and food coloring. Sure, the gorgeous cardboard boxes are fit to be used as the display sarcophagi of tiny dead pharaohs, but still. Have we lost our damn minds? The Emperor is naked, y'all, and has been for years. 

Laduree has boxes fit to bury tiny Care Bear kings. Still not that delicious though.

Enough already. Let's go back to eating rice crackers and cupcakes. I mean real cupcakes. The kind that don't have a three-inch butter-boner on their heads...and on that note, I'm going to stop because I feel another food rant coming on. 

Oh man. This blog post is such a macaroon. 

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*Betcha didn't see that one coming, eh? Keeping it fresh. 

Happy Everything: Part 1

Happy new year and a belated Merry Christmas, one and all! It has been a beautiful holiday season over here in Gumpen Village Street. My parents are here and so we are drowning pleasantly in Christmas cheer, and the Noodle has been spoiled rotten with a constant stream of toys, cookies and company. I am just super fat and on day five of a slow-motion post-holiday sugar crash that has left me slightly cranky and tired. Not in a bad way. Just kind of a flabby way. 

The magic of Christmas *drool*

Noodle didn't really get what Christmas is about, but she has definitely been enjoying the side benefits: sugar, toys and the presence of her smitten grandparents, whom she calls Nana and Gdod, or rather ..., since the "Gr" in "Granddad" appears to present a challenge so insurmountable that she doesn't even try. 

Decorated by Alex. In his defense, he's Jewish.

But while she doesn't understand what we were celebrating, she definitely did understand that it was awesome. Here are some of the highlights. 

First off, the Christmas tree. This is the first time Alex and I have gotten a real live dead tree for Christmas, since usually we aren't in Vienna at this time of the year.  We set it up one night after Nava had gone to sleep, and decorated with our brand new string of lights and ornaments purchased in a large box set. We forgot to get a tree topper, so Alex McGyver'd a Kenyan mask onto the top and fed lights through the eyeholes. This is how we celebrate multiculturalism. 

Miss Noodle doesn't know the difference, and was much enthused. 

"Mommy!" she said. "Wow!" And she ran over to the tree and started touching the ornaments, muttering "cookie" and "shaka," which is her way of saying "chocolate". At first I thought she thought the ornaments were made of candy, but I've sinced realized that "cookie" is simply the highest form of compliment she knows how to give. As in, damn this tree is cookie. It is SO chocolate. (This morning, for example, she found a yellow highlighter and pulled the lid off, exposing its fluorescent felt tip. Her eyes widened. You could see her wee brain awash with inspired ideas about surfaces that would benefit from the application of this glorious lazer-and-lightning-bolts hue, starting with Mommy's face. What did she say? "Coooookie.") 

Noodle's special ornament.

Nana and Gdod arrived here on the 20th, and Christmas exploded. We hung candy canes and had wonderful people over for Glühwein. We baked and ate stupid numbers of cookies. We ate several individuals from the avian world, naturally accompanied by red cabbage and dumplings. 

Dinner with Alex's sister, her family and his brother and their family was both delicious and educational, as it was the first time I ever witnessed the Austrian Christmas tradition, a la the Nutcracker: the grownups dismiss all the kids, arrange presents, light real live flaming candles and sparklers and then ring a bell to signify that little baby Jesus has visited. Everyone comes in and gawks at the spectacular sight. And I guess all the grown ups are just hoping that nothing catches fire, because that tree would go up like a roman candle. The noodle was given even more glorious gifts, plus also her awesome teenage cousin let her eat a bunch of said cousin's candy cane and also cookies (obviously). The rest of us drank mulled wine and contemplated the quantities of bird in our bellies. 

While spending time with family and friends is great, we all know that Christmas is really about getting heaps of loot. Noodle got many beautiful, occasionally educational but mostly noisy and shiny gifts. She has been playing with all of them--so thank you!--and is so overwhelmed by the amount of new stuff in our home that she doesn't even know what to do. 

The gift that keeps on giving. In non-girly colours, which makes it okay, right?

But of all the gifts, the one that has occupied most of her waking hours has been the toy kitchen.  This girl loves to pretend to cook and serve tea. I realize that this is the most gendered gift imaginable, but in our defence she effing LOVES TOY KITCHENS. She is drawn to them like a paper clip to a refrigerator magnet, like a pig to poop. She wallows in this kitchen.  

Another cheery force feeding.

It's been several days since Christmas, so Noodle has had time to develop a whole process for the kitchen, which sits beside her also-brand-new tiny chairs and desk. 

A visit to her restaurant begins with a command to sit. She points at her tiny chairs and says, "Sit." Her face is deadly serious. If you walk away, she will grow louder. "Sit sit sit SIT SIT SIT. Sit sit." If you do not sit because you have other things to do, like go to the bathroom or check your emails, or converse with another adult, you will be dead to her for at least a quarter of an hour. But the chef is forgiving. You will eventually be welcomed back into the fold with an order to SIT. 

Once you DO sit, you are treated to a warm and welcoming smile. Maybe even a mouth kiss or a pat on the hand. Then you are handed a cup and are spoon-fed delicious air from a tiny pot. Then you get a piece of toy pie or toast. Perhaps a second course of egg or carrot. These must be consumed rapidly and with gusto, because you may soon be encouraged to relinquish your tiny chair and sit on the floor so that Winnie the Pooh and other stuffed friends can have a seat at the table Chez Noodle. 

After the food courses, you will participate in an elaborate and confusing ceremony that involves pouring "tea" from one vessel to another while making the sound "Ssssss". In between you take sips and/or tip some into the mouths of other guests at the table, especially the furry and inanimate. 

If you leave too soon you will be told to sit. Sit. SIT. You can try to do your own cooking and feed the Noodle your concoctions, but as in real life she only accepts toast and pie. The plastic carrot and plush mushroom stew you slaved over for two minutes can go f*** itself. "Nein," she says, shrilly. "This nein!" Overall, at Noodle's Place the portions are small but aggressively presented, and the service is rigorous. The owner is pushy but generous, and non-threatening because very small. 

My parents have been dining at the wee tyrant's palace of culinary delights all day, every day since Christmas, bless them. Alex and I, though, did the smart things and begged off to fly to Istanbul for four nights, which I'll tell you all about next time. 

For now, please enjoy this video of Sesame Street's beloved Cookie Monster, who has been the patron saint of our 2014 holiday season. 

Cookie?

The munchkin's linguistic repertoire is expanding. Toddler brains acquire language so darn fast you can almost smell their curly little hairs burning. Last week Miss Noodle became really good at pointing at the right part of a face if you said "nose," or "hair," or "mouth". And this week, as if by magic, she can point at "Mommy's mouth" or "Daddy's nose" or "Noodle's ears". 

Before there were cookies.

People are always interested to know what their first words were. It indicates their earliest priorities. According to my parents, after the obligatory "Mommy" and "Daddy," mine were "read" and "cheese," which is pretty much the story of my life. 

I guess Miss Noodle already understands a hundred words (okay, Google says 50 but I think it's more), but the first ones she has spoken are: Mommy, Daddy, this (and das), I see! (which she uses as one word), no (and nein), dog, hi, bye-bye, yes (and ja), up, down, apple (pronounced appie), done, and mine (and meine). There are a bunch of other sounds she says regularly but that are such terrible (and wonderful) mispronunciations that they can't really be counted, e.g. "ahm" for food, "bang" for blanket, "buh" for book, or "nananananana" for banana. Or "sgut," which we think is "ist gut" and "kois," which we're pretty sure is her sweetly Yiddish way of saying "of course". 

Before there were teeth there were macaroons

Yesterday she even tried to say "Nackerbatzl" when I was getting her ready for a bath. "Nackiba," she said. Nackerbatzl is German for a naked person, and it's one of those things that's part of the vocabulary we use exclusively when interacting with kids. 

By the way, have you noticed how many words and expressions we have like that? We expend all this energy teaching children to say things that they will not ever use as grownups. 

You do not believe me? I can prove it. Cock-a-doodle-doo. What right-minded adult describes the crow of a rooster as a cockadoodledoo? Man chickens do not "say" "cockadoodledoo". Maybe, like, a "a-ooo-oo-ooooo." But if you have every heard a cock say "cock" or "doodle" I'd like to know about it. Video, please. 

"Cock-a-doodle-doo"

"Oh dude, I'm exhausted. I was roused at 5 a.m. this morning by a loud cockadoodledoo," said no one, ever. I urge you to recall a single time that you have used the word "cockadoodledoo" in adult conversation. So why do we teach it to children? Is it just to hear their adorable, muppet-like voices saying "cockadoodledoo"? Probably. 

But anyway. That is not the point of this blog post. The point of this blog post is this: One word that Miss Noodle can say VERY clearly, and which is a clear indication of her priorities, is "cookie." 

She knows where we keep cookies. Mid-play they will occur to her, and she will rise to her feet and walk across the entire apartment with her finger pointed toward Mecca and her face pointed toward the nearest adult, all the way invoking the name of cookies. Often I then say something along the lines of, "You already had a cookie today and if you eat any more cookies this week you will turn into a cookie and I will hate myself for being the kind of crappy mother who buys their child's temporary affection by giving them what they ask for i.e. more cookies. No cookies."

But the Noodle is still coming to grips with the fact that even though she can clearly state what she wants, she may not get it. After all, when you're a baby the entire problem is that you can't tell your adults whether you are thirsty or too hot or need a clean diaper. Suddenly you can express your wishes, and the grownups turn out to be giant jerks. The only solution, then, is to drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes, possibly causing lasting damage to the old noggin, stomp your feet, flail your arms and scream. 

Noodle can throw a killer tantrum. It's one of her new skills. But she is very sweet and won't pitch a fit until she is sure that her mother is the asshole. After all, she doesn't speak very well, and it may be that I am simply not understanding what she really wants. 

"Coo-KIE?" 
"No more cookies, Noodle."
"COO-kie."
"No more."
"Cokie."
"No."
"Cokay?"
"Still no."
"Coogie. Cogie. Cakey. Cokey. CooKAI. Kaikai."
"Noodle. I already told you, love. No. More. Cookies."
"WAAAAAH!"

I tell you though. It is hard to deny this kid a cookie. She may be a 16 month-old with but four teeth, but she loves a crisp cookie snack. They make her inordinately happy. As you can see here, in this video that I (AGAIN! Koisses!) filmed vertically in the heat of the moment. 

May all our weekends be filled with cookies. 

Jingle Bells Backpost: A Christmas Cookie How-To for Average People

In the Hunt family, the tradition of Christmas cookie baking follows an established pattern. We do nothing until the 23rd of December. Then we dither over which recipes to make, and choose at least six, of which three are stupidly complicated and involve caramelising pecans or using a pastry bag or baking separate layers or some such nonsense. Then we head off the shops, which were emptied of all their premium baking supplies days ago - we just take whatever's left.

A contemporary family of gingerbears; also an example
of inefficient and self-indulgent cookie making

The problem is that we repeatedly forget how much we suck at this. I tend to get carried away by the spirit of season and delude myself that it will be easy. That it will be FUN. We always have to do those classic Christmas sugar cookies, and of course we'll mix our own icing - we all went to college, for God's sake, surely we can make a little icing.

The other problem is that we have terrible taste in cookie decoration. What do you mean, do we need sprinkles? Of course we need sprinkles. Coloured sugar? Yes, please. Edible confetti shaped like Christmas trees? So cute!  

And since we've got all this stuff, we reason, we should just go ahead and double this recipe. And that one. Oh, and that one too. Who doesn't need four hundred thousand Christmas cookies? If we have too many left over after the party, we'll just give them away! Who doesn't want to be gifted with cookies that look like they were sneezed on by one of Santa's little glitter-snorting elves. 

Our best cookies ever.

But this year, despite our innate tendency to be pretty bad at this, we actually produced a reasonable number and variety of mostly appetizing cookies. As usual we had about 300 left over, but that's what makes it Christmas in 'Merica. 

Look to Pinterest for links to Type-A foodie websites that'll have you beating meringue and your head against your cloth-and-flour-wrapped chopping board. But if you have just average skills and average interest, look no further, for I bring you: 

The Definitive How-To Guide to Producing Okay Christmas Cookies 

Rule 1: Ambition is your enemy
The laziest and most conservative member of the recipe selection committee must always be allowed to win. For instance:
A: "Oooh, this recipe looks fun." 
B: "I'm not sure, Pippin, it says you need to make the banana-ginger ale chutney and the toasted coconut-lime glaze 72 hours in advance." 
A: "You're right, Bill, what the f*** was I thinking. Let's just have peanut butter like we always do."

Disaster averted! Pick your battles and do not overreach. 

Rule 2: Simplify! Suppress any inclination you have to do something special or "round out" your cookie menu. 
A: "Don't you think it's weird to not have shortbread?"
B: "NO." 

Rule 3: Buy pre-made icing. 

Pre-mixed icing in handy bags. Worth every red cent.

Get the kind where you just snip off the tip and are good to go. No more runny, undisciplined, hallucinogenic hues! Smart cookies use available technology and know when to outsource. It's the American way.  

Rule 4: Just say no to sprinkles of every kind. 
A: "But-"
B: "NO." 

Rule 5: Vet your assistants before they start "helping."
C: "Oh, fun! Are we making cookies?"
B: "NO."
A: "Oh hi, C! Thank Gof you're here. Can you run to the store and go buy us some more pre-packaged icing? Thanks a million." 

Promote imbeciles out of harm's way. 

Rule 6: Less is more. 
Individualistic whimsical flourishes are selfish, undisciplined and make the whole battalion look weak. Stick to outlines; straight ones if possible. Any fool can do a squiggle; it takes an expert to make hundreds of icing dots that don't look like little comets. 

Rule 7: Stick to the plan
A: "I just had another idea for these snowman-shaped cookies."
B: "Too late, we're doing them all in white outlines with blue eyes and yellow buttons."
A: "But wouldn't it be cute if they had little pink scarves?"
B: "Okay, who am I? Nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh wittle pink scawves... NO." 

And don't forget to have fun and a very Merry Christmas! 

It's good you're getting these tips in January, so you can have them good and memorized by the time it's Christmas cookie season again, am I right?