Whimsical Wednesday

I need a giggle lately. I really do. So, as I've done before, I'm sending you over to Goldfish today. Because if you thought a Valium Salt Lick was a good idea, you're going to love her ideas for holiday gifties.

Also, I'm doing my first-ever giveaway on this site, in honor of the notion of Whimsical, Wacky, Whack-job Gifts.

Here's how you enter: Just leave a comment telling me a brilliant idea you have for a holiday gift--one that would make your life or your job or your day a little easier. In the spirit of the Valium Salt Lick, I will choose my favorite entry and that person will win......haha. I ain't a-gonna tell you yet.


Look! It's the Poster Child for the Valium Salt Lick!


Please enter by 12pm this Wednesday, December 16.

Now put your diabolical minds to work!!

For the Original Minx

I've got me a name, but just call me Miss D.
'Cause I'm 100 percent different--
But that's all right with me!

I've got hog-wild, nappy, disobedient
Hair--it springs into life
When it hits the air.

My mom tries to tame it with creams, gels and combs
But my hair's got spunk--
A mind of its own!



My skin is a marvel!
It's not black, brown or white
It's a mix of them all
And on me, it's just right.

I've got licorice legs
And ashy, knock-knees,
But they carry me graceful
And light through the breeze.



I've got thirteen freckles
On each of my feet
But they move just like lightning
When I dance to the beat.

I can't ride a bike
And I'm hopeless at sums
But I throw magnificent parties
And everyone comes.



I love hummus, tandoori
Collards and trout
But don't hand me a hot dog,
Those things freak me out!

I play the French horn,
The bassoon and kazoo--
The flute's much too quiet
I think so, don't you?

My mom calls me Pickle Breath,
And my dad calls me Toot!
But they say it with love
So I think it's cute.

If you tell me a joke?
I'll never laugh quiet--
I guffaw and I snort
'Cause I think life's a riot.

I mix dots, stripes and plaid
When I'm dressing my best,
But I never wear beige--
It makes me depressed.

It's true that I'm different
But my spirit is free.
I'm crazy, happy and nappy--
It's good to be me!



Happy Birthday to the self-proclaimed, "Best Girl in the World." And aren't you, though.

The Cat Lady

I hadn't planned on talking about Cats I Have Known on this blog. This blog has nothing to do with cats--unless I have a nifty little recipe for Tabby Fricassee--and yet, I'm going to talk about cats.

But now that I think of it, Tabby Fricassee doesn't sound too bad, because that's what I'm ready to do with Harryboy.



Harryboy was Awesome Stepkid R.'s consolation prize for enduring a move to a new city with his new Evil Stepmonster. R. was at an awkward stage and didn't make friends easily; he was peevish and lonely those first few months. A dog was out of the question; I am highly allergic. I'd grown up with cats, and R. had a cat at his bio-Mom's house, so we decided a cat was just the thing.

We chose Harryboy (true name: Harry Potter) at our local shelter and brought him home and, true to form, he put a smile on R.'s face. And I liked Harryboy fine until it became increasingly apparent to me that Harryboy thought he was a dog. He fetched. He met you as soon as you hit the door, running in excited little circles. He constantly begged for a warm lap and a scratch. He howled when the doorbell rang. He snuggled as close as possible to my butt as I was sleeping. In short: Harryboy was a needy little bastard.



Harryboy has never let me forget that he was my first baby, before I had babies. He's gentle and tolerant of the girls, but the minute he gets me alone--BAMMO! That fuzz-faced lothario is practically humping my leg, crying for lovin.'

As if I didn't get enough of that from my husband.

In fact, I think if Harryboy were a little higher on the evolutionary chain, he'd be on the phone with the Russian Mafia, plotting Hubs' tragic and accidental demise. Harryboy has a jealousy problem. He is also a vindictive little shit.

The first time we left Harryboy for a weekend (yes, the neighbor kid came in and took care of his needs) he pissed in Hubs' gym bag. In fact, he pisses on things a few times a year, just to show us who is boss. And those things are always things that my husband happens to own. He won't touch an object that belongs to Miss D. or Miss M. or me. But hubs' property? That shit's got latrine written all over it.

But actually, I shouldn't be so shocked that Harryboy is high maintenance. Growing up, we owned a cornucopia of cats, and they were all freakshows.

There was ScatCat, a huge beastazoid stray, who my parents had to get rid of because, riddled with *displacement rage*, he repeatedly tried to eat me once I began crawling.


Notice the affection my sister seems to have here for ScatCat. Coincidence? I think not.

My mother told Daddy to take him to the humane society, but instead, my father drove ScatCat out to a lovely little forest, several hours away, and hucked him into the wild. **Please, no animal activist lectures, here. This was 1970 and sure, it wasn't the right thing to do, but ScatCat was so mean that nobody would have adopted his ass anyways.**

Alas, ScatCat had a wicked sense of direction. He showed up, battle-scarred and highly pissed, on our North Dakota porch a month later. So off to the shelter he went.

Lest you think that I was poor, helpless prey to all cats that crossed my path, I give you Crystal. We took Crystal after a neighbor found a litter of kittens in a field.



I'm pretty sure Crystal rued the day she fell into our hands. I didn't have any friends that year and had far too much time to fritter away.



And there was poor Baxter, the cat I wheedled away from an old boyfriend. This boyfriend just plain couldn't remember to buy cat food on a regular basis. So every few weeks, when Baxter was starving and there was no feline nourishment around, said boyfriend would make a peanut butter sandwich, hurl it into the center of the room and watch the carnage. Baxter was, when I got him, so old that he only had a tooth or two. And very, very, dire Kittycat Halitosis.




He was friendly, so visitors would approach him, but as soon as they got a whiff of the Bax-Man, they'd recoil and say, "Whadda Hell He Get Into?"

For a brief while, in my single years, there was Wallace, the cat with the death wish. Wallace, that suicidal whackjob, could not stop chewing electrical cords. He K.O.'ed 3 MacIntosh computer systems in a 6 month span. Needless to say, Wallace needed help, and I needed to quit worrying about extensive fire damage.

My favorite cat, growing up, was Shoelaces. Everyone loved Shoelaces. He was the George Clooney of felines; handsome, suave, charming. He flirted like he'd been born doing it--just look at him, sassing Gramma Rhetta.



That cat could work a grammar school playground like nobody's business. Several times a week, Shoelaces would follow me to school, like Mary and her proverbial lamb. He'd shmooze his way around the schoolyard, and kids would obediently rummage in their lunchboxes, giving him the choicest morsels. Alas, one day, he disappeared on one of his forays, but for YEARS afterwards, neighborhood kids continued to ask, "Hey, has Shoelaces shown up yet?"

I miss him still, and although I know he isn't with us anymore, I half expect him to someday saunter up the sidewalk, twinkle in his eye, as if to say, "I'd tell ya where I been, kid, but you'd never believe it."

And back to Harryboy. As we sit here, with the Holiday Season of the Rodent rapidly approaching, I can only wonder what adventures we have in store. That quiet holiday I wanted this year? I'm thinking it's not in the cards.

Cookie of the Week: Dusseldorf cookies

This is one old recipe; Mama says it's at least 120 years old. Gramma Rhetta got it from a neighbor--a good little German lady named Mrs. Hagerup. Mrs. Hagerup must have been one helluva baker because not one but two of our family Christmas cookie recipes come from her.

This cookie was one of my favorites to make, because I loved filling the cookies with jam and then rolling them in sugar. It's good fun for a kid. This is also the first cookie Daddy reaches for on the dessert tray.

Dusseldorf Cookies
makes a buttload

2 sticks butter, softened
3/4 cup powdered sugar
2 cups flour, sifted
3/4 cup ground pecans or walnuts (I spun mine through the food processor)
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
Jam, any flavor you like
granulated sugar

Beat the butter and sugar until fluffy. Add remaining ingredients. Form dough into logs, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate until very firm.

Preheat oven to 350. Cut logs crosswise into thin slices. Bake until browned around the edges, about 8-12 minutes. Cool.

Spread the underside of one cookie with jam; stick another cookie onto it to make a sandwich. Roll in granulated sugar.



See y'all Monday. If you schlep out to the mall this weekend, don't forget to scout out the Valium Salt Lick before you go.

Easiest Holiday Dessert Ever!

I mean, really, it doesn't get easier than this. Well, opening a Mrs. Smith's pie is easier, but it's not going to impress like this dessert. Barefoot Bloggers picked Ina's Croissant Bread Pudding as our first December recipe.

You can find the recipe on the Barefoot Bloggers site here:

I followed the recipe to the letter, save one exception. My husband thinks that raisins are the Devil's work, so I substituted dried cherries. And they worked well; plus, red is much more festive than black!

And yeah, this recipe is an ass-buster. I mean, think about it--croissants, sugar, half and half, almost a dozen egg yolks. You could marinate a turd in that and it'd be deeeeeelicious. I would almost say that Ina has created the most fattening bread pudding ever, but then I remembered that Paula Deen once made a bread pudding using doughnuts, so I think she gets the Princess of Protruding Posterior Award.

But this is the holidays, people! We're supposed to eat delicious artery cloggers! Bring this to any holiday gathering and you'll be instantly popular. Because like most recipes loaded with butterfat, this thing is mega-scrumptious. Trust me: serve it warm. So much better that way.

I give you permission to eat this once a year. Without guilt. Just a tiny piece, because it's richer than Midas. And then go vegan for a week or something. Worth it.

Note to readers: I'll be kind of scarce from this morning until the end of the weekend, so if I don't visit your blog, don't think I don't love ya! I've just got some funky times going' on! Have a great weekend!

F-Bomb Alert: Skeletor Issues

A few months back, Miss D. was at a swanky birthday party (snark about parents who have stinking PONIES at their kids' parties is forthcoming). A ginormous cake was brought out, the ice cream followed, and portions were doled out to eager partygoers. Miss D., who doesn't have a subtle bone in her body, dug into her piece with ferocity. And then a girl, adorable in her frilly dress, looked askance at my child and said, in a sing-song voice..."Eww. That's going to make you fat."

That little bitch. Yeah, I just called a little girl a bitch. In fact, I wanted to punch her in her pretty freckled face. And sure, it's wrong to want to deck a 2nd grader, but when I saw Miss D., formerly so enthusiastic about her cake, take in what this girl had said, stricken, and hesitate....

Fuck. Why, why, why did I wish for girls?

Because get this. That little girl at the party? The Future President of the Bulimic Club in high school? I hate her. But I hate her Mommy more.

Yeppers. I blame that girl's Mommy. Without hesitation. Because, let's face it, that's what Mommies do. We fuck up our daughters about food.

Which, as I write this, makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Because if Miss D. or Miss M. gets fucked up about food, I will slit my throat.

Because once, I was fucked up about food, and it almost killed me. And even though it was ME bent over the toilet, puking up my dinner, was ME exercising until my muscles screamed, was ME who fainted in the college dorm shower after three days without food, was ME who came home for Christmas break weighing 85 pounds Freshman year of college...everyone blamed my mother.

Because that's who people blame when a daughter runs amok.

But I will tell you with utmost certainty that my mother did not fuck me up about food. She was slender but didn't seem to work at it, nor did she ever utter the phrase, "I feel/look fat." Our family sat down together for dinner every night of the week. My sister and I were neither praised nor berated if we cleaned our plates. Everyone ate the same meal; there was no spaghetti-for-the-family-while-Mommy-eats-a-lettuce-leaf bullshit going on. We kept candy and cookies in the house, openly and always. My sister and I were loved and told that we were beautiful and had good brains. My mother and father never, not once, snidely commented on my body.

And yet I got fucked up--dangerously fucked up--about food.

And I will tell you how easy, how mind-numbingly easy it is to start being fucked up about food. Because I remember the exact moment I started.

February 23, 1984. It is my birthday. I am in the 8th grade. The week before, I'd injured my knee skiing, so I was on crutches and rocking a glamorous leg brace. As per family tradition, we were eating at the restaurant of my choice. I can't remember the name of the place, but I do remember my order: Fried Shrimp. Which I loved.(I mean, shit, who doesn't?)

I was happy. My parents had given me my first pair of diamond earrings; little chips of things, but in my eyes, they signified that I was growing up, and cherished, and trusted to have such nice things. The waiter was charming and teased me gently about my injury. My dinner was delicious and the banter at the table lively.

And then halfway through dinner, my sister, almost four years my senior, looked at my plate and said sotto vocce, "You keep eating like that and you're going to get fat. Especially on crutches."

I don't think she really meant much by it. Although, knowing her, it is possible. But the reason I remember this moment so clearly is that there was, for me, a complete seismic shift. You think I exaggerate, but I don't. My dinner, my Happy Birthday to Me plate of exactly the food that I wanted, turned traitor, blurred in a swell of tears. I am 14. I have boys who flirt with me and I am a thin 5'7 and 110 pounds, but suddenly, things are different, newly clear.

I bow my head, mutter an excuse, grab my crutches and limp to the bathroom, where I stick my finger down my throat for the first time. The bile burns and my eyes leak and I keep gagging clumsily, but after I am emptied, I feel clean.

I was 14 years old. It took one moment. Just one thoughtless comment. And my life is de-railed for 10 years.

So who, caterpillars, is to blame?

Not Mama. Not Daddy. Not my sister, although she was an asshole. Not the fashion magazines. Not my peers.

I am to blame.

There are plenty of excuses out there: It's about control issues. It's about depression. It's about perfectionism. It's about society's focus on appearance...

Well, pardon me, but fuck those excuses and the horse they rode in on.

I am to blame.

Deep down, I didn't trust myself to be enough. Of anything. All my life I'd been told that I was good and sweet and smart and beautiful, but I'd never once believed it.

Instead, I chose to believe the bully who told me I had ugly legs. I chose to believe the sister, who in moments of anger said she hated me. I chose to believe the gym teacher who said I was weak. I chose to believe the math test that screamed--Moron! I chose to believe the boys who never asked me to dance.

You know what's amazing about those 10 years I spent being immensely fucked up about food?

I functioned.

Somehow, I functioned quite well. I aced tests, graduated Phi Beta Kappa. I wore baggy clothes and had boys willing to kiss me. I rarely got sick and had amazing stamina. I got into graduate school.

And I remember almost zero of it.

That's right. I don't remember books I read, lectures I attended, concepts I studied, conversations I had, places I went. Damn near zero.

Being fucked up about food cost me 10 years of my life. And I am to blame. Because I was given everything a girl could ask for but I still had this thing--a fault line running through me--deep and wicked and shrieking that I was no good. And that was what I chose to believe.

I don't know why some girls have fault lines and others escape. That's what keeps me up at night, now that I'm the mother of girls.

I do what my Mama did. I cuddle them and tell them to try again, because it's rare that someone succeeds on the first try. I tell them that they have quick minds and gentle hearts. I laugh as they help me in the kitchen, offer up a spoon to a willing mouth.

But part of me is standing in the shadows, waiting. Wringing her hands.

Why The Holidays Suck: #493

Let me count the ways the holidays suck: Those "What We Did This Year!!!" holiday bulletins. Aunt Rita's Fruitcake. Those annoying-ass-plastic-clam-shell thingys that all toys come in now. The line at the Post Office. Tracking down the Lone Zhu-Zhu on the planet. The olfactory clusterfuck coming out of every candle store at the MegaMall. Eggnog gas (WTF? Eggnog is not my friend). "Feliz Navidad," the Christmas song from Hades. Shall I go on?

I know, I'm a crank and a Scrooge and Christmas is the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

Once upon a time, when I had a life and did not have children, I liked Christmas just fine. I'd shop, wrap, schlep my butt over to my parents' house and get shitfaced on Mimosas by 1 in the afternoon. And then take all my loot back to my apartment. What's not to like?

But then I had kids. Christmas dies an ugly little death after you have children. Because all of a sudden, there's this pressure to make magical memories with them. Total fucking buzzkill.

The pressure of creating the perfect Christmas for your children? It's the reason they need to install a Valium Salt Lick in the shopping mall after Thanksgiving.

And while they're at it, can they make the drinking fountains squirt out grain alcohol? Because mommies need that shit.

And what about that whole Mall Santa Photo Thing? There are pictures of horror-stricken, traumatized, wailing kids all over the Internet this time of year. Why do we subject our kids to this? We put them in the itchiest, most uncomfortable outfits they own, haul them down to the mall, make them wait in line for an hour with those freaks who bring their dogs to see Santa, hiss at them if they try to do anything normal, like fidget or run around, plop them into the lap of a strange bearded dude, and expect them to think, "This is the Shit!"

Now before you accuse me of snobbery and arrogance, I will admit to you up-front that I took first-born to see the Mall Santa. Guilty. I did it, and I paid out the ass for the dorky picture...oh wait. No, I didn't.

Because I was brilliant enough to wait until my child was three years old before I took her to see Mall Santa.

I have reasons for this. The first year, I'd just given birth. The Woman with the Hemorrhoid that Ate Colorado was totally not up for Mall Santa. Also, first-born was so underweight that she looked like E.T.



The second year, first-born was going through the Winter of Oozing Eczema. Enough said.

Year three, there was nothing holding us back. Except for the fact that she was three. The Demon-Child Year.

But I, determined to get my $24.95 snapshot of Holiday Bliss, put her in the itchy dress and schlepped her down to the Megamall. On a weekend in December. Clearly, Mommy ain't real bright.

Things went South within a half hour. First-born stormed the kiosk that carries those hand-held massager thingys. Ummm, y'all know those are vibrators, right? Massagers, my fat fanny. These particular specimens even glowed and sparkled. First-born snatched herself a snazzy pink vibrator and took off running through the mall, full-tilt. Not only did I have to chase after her, I had to drop my purse and 3 oversized shopping bags from Crate&Barrel mid-mall, because first-born is wicked fast. Finally, I tackled her, in front of the Coach store. "Hi, swanky ladies in track-suits buying overpriced bags...don't mind me here, wrestling The Vibrator Bandit to the ground..."

And then there was the hideous wait in line, with those freaks who bring their dogs to see Santa. First-born had an irrational fear of dogs at age three; it's a *long* 45 minutes when your toddler acts like every Shi-Tzu in a sweater is Cujo.

Admittedly, I was in a foul mood when at last, it was our turn to shine. (Hello? Can I campaign any harder for the Valium Salt Lick and the Everclear Drinking Fountain?) First-born shuffled towards Santa and then bolted, insisting, "I'm not sitting on the hairy man."

So I did what any mother would do. I shook her and hissed into her ear, "Do it now or no Happy Meal."

She sullenly plopped her butt on Santa's lap and as the Mall Elf chirped, "Smile and say Snowflake!" first-born spontaneously combusted.

"Stink! Argh! He stinky-stinky!" she hollered, opening her jaws wide and chomping firmly down on Mall Santa's wrist.

You'd think they'd prepare these Mall Santas for shit like this. I mean, kids piss on Santa all the time; can't they handle a leeeetle nibble?

Mall Santa hucked first-born off his lap and said accusingly, "Your kid just bit me lady!"

As if I didn't have eyes.

"She didn't do it that hard," I retorted. Pussy.

"She broke the skin," Mall Elf said helpfully. Stuff it, Enabler.

"She broke the skin," Santa repeated.

"Oh come on!" I said. "Don't tell me one of those things (gesturing to a sweatered and cranky looking Dachshund) hasn't ever taken a chomp out of you. Chill, Kris Kringle."

Which is how, in December of 2004, I ended up in the office of Paul Blart:Mall Cop, filling out an inordinate amount of paperwork. I also had to take first-born to the doctor, get her blood drawn and analyzed, and fax the results back to the MegaMall. Because my kid could, you know, have rabies.

The entire ride home after the Santa Incident, first-born insisted that she had done nothing wrong. In fact, she argued that Mall Santa deserved to be bitten. Because "he stinky, Mama. Santa not supposed to stink."

Pass the Valium Salt Lick, please.

Or a pitcher of these.

Champagne Cosmo
from Fine Cooking
serves 8 people, or 1 Mommy after a trip to the MegaMall

1 1/2 cups cranberry juice cocktail, chilled
1/2 cup Grand Marnier
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
8 thin strips of lemon zest
2 bottles (750 ml) brut sparkling wine or champagne, chilled

Combine the cranberry juice, Grand Marnier, and lime juice in a small pitcher and mix well. Hold a lemon strip over a tall Champagne flute, twist it to release the essential oils, and drop the zest into the flute. Repeat with seven more flutes.

Divide the juice mixture equally among the flutes. Top each flute with the sparkling wine (depending on the size of your flutes, you may not need all the wine). Serve immediately.

Author's tip: If you have remaining champagne, inject it.

Meatless Monday: Roasted Tomato and Red Pepper Soup

Yes, dear readers, I am one of those suburban moms who convinces herself that she has a life because she is in...a book club. It's pathetic, I know. But at least my book club actually reads the book assigned, and we avoid the Oprah recommendations. It's piss-small solace, but it's enough for me.

The Divas Book Club meets every six weeks at Chez T. It wasn't always so; members used to rotate turns hosting. But then I gave birth to Miss M. and started having "babysitter issues." In short, there were extremely few people willing to babysit my almost 4-year-old with "newborn anger" and a needy baby. I kinda didn't blame them. I didn't want to watch them, either.

Thus, I ended up hosting every time. I provide the basics: soup, salad and bread. The other members bring wine, appetizers and dessert. It works pretty well, although the lax attitude towards the RSVP in Colorado once led to a meeting with soup and about 10 desserts. But believe me, nobody complained.

In the four years that I've been making soup, several challenges have been thrown into the mix. One member was diagnosed with Celiac Disease. Another couple of members are cutting meat from their diet. Suddenly, the good old Chicken Noodle standby was no longer an option.

It's been an interesting transition, but I enjoy the opportunity to try new recipes out on them. This is the one they always come back for.



Zingy Roasted Tomato Soup



4 pounds ripe tomatoes, quartered
7 cloves garlic, roughly chopped
1/4 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1/2 teaspoon pepper
2 jalapeno chiles, seeded and halved
1 medium onion, diced
1 quart vegetable stock
1 10-oz. jar roasted red peppers, drained
1 28-oz can fire roasted tomatoes (such as Muir Glen)
1 teaspoon cumin
Salt and pepper to taste
1/3 cup half and half (optional)
Creme fraiche or sour cream and fresh chopped parsley to serve

Preheat oven to 400. Line a baking sheet with heavy-duty foil. Place the fresh tomatoes, garlic and jalapeno on baking sheet. Toss with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Roast until charred, about 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. Cool.

In a large stockpot, add 2 more tablespoons olive oil and heat on medium-high. Saute onion until translucent. Add stock and tomatoes, breaking up tomatoes with the back of a spoon. Add roasted tomato, garlic and jalapeno to pot. Simmer 15 minutes. Add roasted red peppers and cumin; cook 5 minutes more. Cool slightly, then blend with an immersion blender. If using, stir in half and half. Bring gently back up to simmer and taste for salt and pepper. Serve in warmed bowls with sour cream and chopped parsley.

Beauty and A Chuckle

Warning: One look at this and you might pass out, it's so gorgeous. I know that beautiful specimen gets my vote! As I'm sure you can tell, I taught her everything she knows about photography.

But she's not just easy on the eyes. Check out her cutting edge method for easy hair removal!

Actually, just check her out because she's fabulous.

Cookie of the Week: Toffee Cookies

Once the Thanksgiving leftovers disappear, it means one thing at Chez T. Time to start baking the holiday cookies. Better loosen your belts, folks, because it's time to do the Cookie-Boogie!



Growing up, I loved baking Christmas cookies with Mama. My sister never showed much interest, but I loved rolling dough and sprinkling sugar and piping icing along the rims.

We always made the same 4 or 5 kinds of cookies every year. Once in a blue moon, we'd try something different, but ultimately, we always came back to these old favorites.

And I'm happy to share our Greatest Hits with you this season.

So as to not overwhelm you and induce Cookie Coma, I'll share one cookie recipe a week with you this month. I hope you enjoy the process as much as I will, and perhaps it will encourage you to tie on that apron and bake up some memories with your kids.



Miss M. was beyond excited to help, and Miss D. learned what separating an egg means.

These cookies are my personal Waterloo. I can resist an alarming number of sweets; I'm a salt girl. But not these delectable guys. And because I'm a freak, I prefer to eat them straight from the freezer.

Toffee Cookies

Base:
1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup margarine
1 cup brown sugar
1 beaten egg yolk
2 cups flour
1/2 cup ground pecans (my note:I used the food processor)
1 teaspoon vanilla
pinch salt

Topping:
Large (59-cent)* Hershey's chocolate bar, chunked
Nuts, optional

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix ingredients for base using a mixer, beating until well blended. Press into the bottom of a 9x13-inch or a 10x15-inch cookie pan.



Bake for 15-20 minutes or until crust is golden.

Turn off the oven. Working quickly, cover the top of the base layer evenly with chocolate; return to oven for 2-3 minutes or until chocolate is spreadable.

Watch out for chocolate thieves!



Spread chocolate evenly over crust and top with nuts, if desired. Wait until thoroughly cooled to cut.

* Shows how old this recipe is! It's a 7-ounce bar. :)

** A little side note. Mama got this recipe from a neighbor whose son, Darren, was my age. Darren followed me around like a devoted hound and could snort pickle juice up his nose. I was, naturally, wicked impressed by this gift.