World Peace, One Cookie At A Time?

Eight minutes to midnight. I await the drying of the second drizzled layer of chocolate -- this coat the melted white chocolate, so pretty a contrast against the previous layer of dark Ghiradelli chocolate -- all on a batch of biscotti baked last night for my ailing cousin, who's week has been difficult, and my big sister, whose just-a-bit-over-21st birthday falls this weekend on the same day as my father-in-law's.

I'm trying to come to terms with my compulsiveness over certain things: baking comfort food and mailing it off to random friends and relatives being one of them. (It's right up there with fantastical desserts for my Bunco ladies when its my month to host -- Starburst candies make wonderful flowers for orange chiffon cake; or, containers and plates of various and sundry pies, cookies, cakes, and the like for my neighbors to try.) It's not as if I didn't concoct upwards of ten batches of multi-flavored biscotti for folks less than a month ago. (It's not even as if I didn't recently have three or four pieces with my Refresh herbal tea while making dinner!) I can't help myself. Truly. I've tried. Alas, the ambassador within me runs headlong into the curious confectioner also within, and the yearning to tempt my fellow man with delightfully unique and wholesome sweet treats overtakes my practical side. If anything, I only regret that I could not mail as many boxes of my crunchy Italian cookies to as many contacts as existed on my 120+ Christmas card list. You all know who you are!

If I could bake the world into generosity of spirit and lightness of being, I would measure, mix, whip, roll, set at 350 degrees, dry, and dip in a non-stop succession of doughs, batters, crusts, and fillings. If a lemon curd island set atop an oasis of creamy white coconut cake would set fire to hard hearts in dark corners of the world, I would beat beat every egg white within a mile into submission in order to frost countless 3-tiered confections and and carefully coddle their accompanying yolks into a heated bath of tangy juice and melted butter, all the while hunting down the appropriate shipping containers: each box to be overnighted to warlords and hatemongers in war zone hotspots across this vast globe. If buttercream could calm the savage beast, I would fill tubes with the stuff and hand it out at street corners, instructions for application given with a grin and a hug. And, if the heady combination of cream cheese and pumpkin swirled atop a gingery-buttery graham cracker crust could elicit justice from the unfair, shortage be damned, I'd buy up every jack-o-lantern squash and canned counterpart for my soon-to-be-weary Springform pan.

But, peace and grace do not flow from the perfect perimeter of a Red Velvet cupcake, nor are they licked from the peeled paper wrap. Saigon cinnamon sprinkled atop the ruddy surface of a simple snickerdoodle cookie will not bring about a cessation to bus bombings and plane attacks. The perfect pearls of mildly chewy tapioca suspended in a bath of slightly viscous boiled milk and vanilla will not string their way from barrio to hovel to inner city, bringing soft opaque light to troubled souls. Even my husband's favorite celebration of sweet -- Nilla wafers marching up the side of a glass bowl, sliced coins of banana set in a deep bath of lovely thick pudding, extra crushed wafers skimming the surface like fallen skaters on a snow-covered frozen pond -- does not have to power to encourage a general cease and desist.

No, alas, all the whole wheat pastry flour and baking powder in the world will not create a soft enough landing for most people moving through the minefields of their difficult lives. Still, the dreamer within me, the hope and faith attached to such dreams like long tails on a high-flying kite, they refuse to relinquish their grip on the burdened heart of this one suburban housewife set adrift in the northern side of an average town in the middle of Tennessee.

Mine is not an average heart, comprised of mere sinewy chambers through which blood ebbs and flows; I'm quite certain it was formed within my chest by merit of Godly yeast and double-proofed raising. It certainly feels as if it has been kneaded doubly hard! So, when you taste the goods which have sprung forth from my hands, you savor not only the wholesomeness of a toasted almond or an anti-oxidant rich dried cranberry, you sample not just a cross between what I watched Giada di Laurentis do and what I thought would be a most excellent tweak . . . you partake of a piece of my heart. It's that secret ingredient I can reveal but cannot be purchased in bag, bottle, or box at Kroger or World Market. When you accept, either fork or hand to mouth, dipped in tea or accompanied with a cold glass of milk, laughingly shared with a friend, even by the late night illumination of the refrigerator, my stores are replenished and my heart is free to give yet again and again in earnest and generous pre-portioned measure.

Double-chocolate biscotti, anyone?