The sweet fragrance of shortbread cookies wafted through my kitchen this past week.
My favorite, oldest, grandson Daniel, called and asked if I’d help him make Valentine cookies for his class on Friday, yesterday.
Of course, I agreed. One of my favorite activities in the world is to bake with Daniel and his sister, Isabelle. And one of their favored cookies are shortbread.
We make them all through the year and use my collection of cutters to celebrate just about any occasion you can think of!
Shortbread dough is a little tricky to work with, it’s very dry and crumbly, much-like pie dough.
It takes a lot of patience to get through the process of pressing the unruly mixture into flat discs, for a resting period prior to baking.
Needless to say, much of the dough gets accidentally sucked into their sweet little mouths during this process.
On Wednesday we mixed up the dough as we usually do, same ingredients, same method.
The first batch we pulled out of the oven didn’t look like heart at all! They were more like heart-blobs.
Daniel looked at me, I scratched my chin and then we both looked at the pan of inferior shortbread hearts.
I hadn’t been feeling well, a little gift from my grandchildren…a nasty cold.
Daniel again looked at me, then the cookies, and said, “Maybe it’s your cold! You weren’t thinking straight!”
Not thinking straight, I gasped. “No…no…no, it’s not me…it must be the butter.”
If you’ve purchased butter lately, you know it’s right up there with Ghirardelli chocolate!
“I think we need to add more flour when we roll them out!”
I usually add less flour to the recipe because the dough gets too dry and the cookies too brittle.
“I’m sure that’s what happen!” I exclaimed.
So we rolled out the second disc–added a little more flour and “voila” they turned out fine.
But, this meant I had to make up for the first flubbed pan!
Since my sweet grandson was leaving in a short while, I promised I’d make a new batch later and hand deliver them to his mother the next morning.
I’m happy to report, the shortbread hearts made it to Daniel’s mom’s kitchen…aka, my daughter’s kitchen on time, where he sacked each one separately for his classmates.