He likes cookies; who doesn't?  But there's a limited repertoire of the types of cookies my husband likes to eat. I bake chocolate chip and gingerbread types for other members of the family, when they come to visit. Those, he will tentatively taste one or two of, when they're fresh out of the oven, but otherwise they could languish forgotten, rejected by him.  He likes shortbread types, but most of all he prefers old-fashioned rolled sugar cookies, crisp and mildly sweet.

The cookie jar was empty of the last batch I'd baked, finger-length shortbread cookies dipped in melted chocolate, so I set about preparing a new batch. It's simple enough; I rarely use a cookbook any longer, much less scrupulously measure out ingredients. I am familiar enough with the process after almost sixty years of cooking and baking to know by feel and by sight on a more casual basis the amounts required to produce a successful product.

The sugar cookies are simple enough; about 2/3 cup butter/margarine, 1 cup granulated sugar, two eggs, tsp.vanilla, 1-1/2 to 2 cups of all-purpose flour sifted with 1 tsp.baking powder and 1/2 tsp. salt. The dough can be covered and placed in the refrigerator for an hour preparatory to rolling it out. The consistency should be light but firm enough to handle. Rolled to about 1/2" or less, depending on how crisp and light one wants them, sprinkled lightly with coarse-grain sugar, cut into shape, baked until light brown in a 325-degree F. oven.

Inevitably, the fragrance of baking cookies will cling to my hair. And although it's a pleasant enough fragrance I don't appreciate it, particularly when the fragrance becomes acute, usually when we're out walking in the ravine. Which happened yesterday; instead of having the wonderful clean scent of the winter outdoors invading my nostrils I was acutely aware of the fragrance of baked cookies.

I mentioned this laughingly to an acquaintance we came across during our perambulation. She was curious, wanted to know the type of cookie, where the recipe originally came from. And from that enquiry came a bit of a story unto itself. The cookbook was one my husband, then only 18, bought for me in self-defence for I had no cooking skills whatever, and nor did he. We lived in a tiny rented flat, with a very small but functional kitchen we had equipped with stove, refrigerator, table and chairs.

The cookbook he brought home was The American-Jewish Cookbook, a veritable compendium of recipes from just about everywhere in the world with a peculiar Yiddish twist, and I loved it. I learned to bake through the auspices of that cookbook, and to cook palatable meals; it became my go-to mainstay. I still have it, battered and bruised, with most pages somewhat intact. Early in its life, I had propped it up on the stove while I was following a recipe and somehow it caught fire, the evidence of which is clearly visible in the still-charred bottom of the book.