No, “Baby It’s Cold Outside” doesn’t need to be updated to emphasize consent

Unpopular opinion time! “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” isn’t a rape song. It’s not even a rapey song. It’s a seduction song, and we used to know the difference between seduction and rape, before we elevated consent to the highest good.

Apparently there is an arch parody that updates the song to emphasize consent. I despise arch parodies, so I refuse to watch it, and you can’t make me.

For the record, I don’t even especially like the original song. It’s okay, as far as cutesy duets go. It does an adequate job of capturing a familiar relationship between a man and a woman. As with any song, you can make it come across as creepy and criminal; but you can also make it come across as it was originally intended: as playful.  The couple is literally playing a game, a very old one, where the man wants what he wants, and the woman wants it too, but it’s more fun for both of them when he has to work for it a little bit. It’s a song about persuasion. That’s what seduction is, and that’s what makes the song interesting: the tension. If there is no tension, there is no song.

Here are the full lyrics. The woman’s lines are in parenthesis. If you’re convinced this song is a rape song, please do read through the lyrics before you read the rest of this post!

You’ll note that the only protests the woman makes are that her reputation might be soiled. She doesn’t say that she wants to go, only that she should. This is because  . . . I’m dying a little inside because I actually have to say it . . . she actually wants to stay. As women often do, when they are already in a relationship with a man they are attracted to and with whom they have been spending a romantic evening, and whom they have been telling repeatedly that they are actually interested in staying.

Most critics get hung up on the line, “Say, what’s in this drink?” The assumption is that he’s slipped a drug into her cocktail (or, occasionally, that he’s spiked her virgin drink with alcohol). Okay. Or maybe, at the end of an evening of dancing and drinking, he’s added a little more liquor than she’s expecting. Or maybe he hasn’t done anything, other than give her the “half a drink more” she just asked for, and she’s playfully making an excuse for what she’s about to do:  Whoo, what’s in this drink? I’m acting all silly, but it can’t be my fault, mercy me!  This was a standard trope of that era. Anytime something weird goes on, you blame the bottle.

Again: there is no indication, unless you take that one line out of context, that there is anything sinister going on. There is overwhelming evidence, if you listen to the whole song, that it’s a song about a pleasurable interplay between the sexes.

Heck, if we’re going to give this song the darkest possible reading, and single out one line while ignoring the context, why not call it the False Rape Accusation song? After all, the woman says, “At least I’m gonna say that I tried!” You see? She’s calculating a malicious plan to claim that she didn’t give consent, so that when her family and neighbors look askance at her for spending the night, she can make it seem like it was against her will!

Humbug. This is what happens when we’re all trained to see consent as the highest good. This is what happens when we’re trained to ignore context. People who can’t tell the difference between persuasion and force are people who have forgotten why consent is so important.

Consent isn’t valuable in itself. If it were, then it would be a holy and solemn moment when we check the “I agree” box when signing onto free WiFi at Dunkin’ Donuts. Consent is only a good thing because it’s in service to other things — higher things with intrinsic value, such as fidelity, free will, self sacrifice, respect, happiness, integrity, and . . . love. These are all things that you can’t have unless you have consent.

But when all you look for is consent, and you ignore the context, you get two human beings who see each other in rigid roles — business partners with black and white contractual obligations. In short, you have what modern people say they despise about the bad old days: love as a business arrangement.

My friends, I firmly believe there is such a thing as rape culture. When we wink and smirk and say, “Boys will be boys,” we degrade both women and men, and we teach women that they have a duty to give men whatever they want so they’re not a tease or a downer. We teach men that they can’t control themselves. We teach women that they can’t really say no, and that if they do, they’ll be scoffed at or blamed or disbelieved. When we tell the world that “no means maybe,” we’re setting the stage for rape.

But is this song doing that? Or is it just a little vignette of that deliciously warm in-between place, where reasonable people can have fun together? Because when we step outside, and make everything black and white, then, baby, it’s cold. So cold.

We degrade both men and women when we tell them that sex is just another contractual obligation — and that there’s no difference between a violent encounter between strangers, and a playful exchange between a romantic couple, and a violent exchange between a romantic couple, and a loving relationship in marriage, and a violent relationship in marriage. We’re told that the relationship doesn’t matter, and that the actual behavior has no intrinsic meaning. The only thing that matters is consent. We think that focusing on consent will ensure that no one will be degraded or taken advantage of; but instead, it has won us abominations like “empowering porn” and 50 Shades of Gray and even the suggestion that children can give consent.  It wins us a generation of kids that asks things like, “How can I tell if she consents or not, if she’s not conscious?” (A real question I read from a high school kid; I’ll add the link if I can find it again!) These miseries are not a side effect; they are the direct result of a culture that elevates consent to the highest good.

It’s not only promiscuous, secular types whose lives are impoverished by the cold rule of consent. I’m a member of a group of Catholics where one young woman wrote for advice about her husband, who, she tearfully reported, kissed her without first asking consent. This made her feel violated.

It was her husband.

Who kissed her.

And she thought he needed to ask consent every time.

This is where the pendulum has swung. We’ve pathologized the normal, healthy, give-and-take of love. We’ve taught people that there is no such thing as context: that’s it’s fair game to ignore the entire relationship and to reduce each other to business partners.

Now, if you’ve been victimized or abused, then this is probably not going to be your favorite song. You’re free to find it creepy, and you’re free to change the station. But we don’t heal from abuse by turning the whole world into an isolation ward. Healthy relationships, where the context does allow for some interplay and ambiguity, should be the norm, and they should dare to speak their healthy name.

And one more thing (and I could write volumes about this): not everything is a lesson. Not every pop song is a primer for how to behave. I tell my kids that it’s our duty to be aware of what the world is teaching us, for good or ill; but just because we’re learning something doesn’t mean there was a life lesson intended.  Sometimes art, including pop art (like pop songs) is just giving you a slice of human experience, and when it feels familiar, then it’s done well, period.

No wonder people have no idea how to stay married anymore. They expect everything to be a lesson, and they expect those lessons to be black and white. They think that life is going to give them crystal clear boundaries. They think that it’s always going to be obvious what they can expect from other people and from themselves.

I’m not talking about sex, here; I’m talking about love, and about life in general — life without context, life without tension, life without ambiguity, life without play. Baby, it doesn’t get any colder than that.

***
Image: Pedro Ignacio Guridi via Flickr (Creative Commons)
This essay ran in a slightly different form on Aleteia in 2015.

Stop by after work to visit the new baby!

 

Our Christmas art miniseries continues with the fresh and lovely work of Matthew Alderman, who graciously shared several of his drawings with us. Today’s piece is this remarkably lucid Madonna and Child, originally a Christmas card design.

When I saw his art, I immediately thought of the great Walter Crane, who illustrated so many children’s books around the turn of the century. This Madonna and Child recall that courtly, allegorical style, but in place of a characteristic smoldering, guarded expression, Mary and Jesus’ faces are open and enthusiastic, and the design looks nobly ancient rather than old-fashioned. Lovers of children’s books will also be reminded of Trina Schart Hyman, who drew heavily on heraldry and illuminated manuscripts, nodded at the pre-raphaelites, and then opened the window to let some air in.

Ohh, I have questions for Mr. Alderman! More about his extensive work later.

I chose this work of art for today because I can imagine Mary and Jesus having had a few days to rest and freshen up after the birth. They are clearly feeling fine and are ready to receive visitors. Mary wears rings and a circlet of pearls, as an honored queen, but just like any new mother, she is proud of her beautiful new baby boy, and wants to show him off.

[img attachment=”85785″ align=”alignnone” size=”full” alt=”christmas art Matthew Alderman madonna and child” /]

A nice reminder, on a day when many of us are heading back to work and taking up our daily chores and routine again. Take a moment, at some point during the day, to visit with this happy young mother and her wonderful Child. Praise him, and pass along this openness and joy to the next person you meet!

***

 

You can see the rest of this year’s Christmas art here: John the Baptist by Matt Clark, some pregnant madonnas by Teresa von Teichman, and Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming by the extraordinary James Janknegt.

Roses

See how the small king opens His arms to you with all His strength. See the roses blooming in the dead of winter.

It was hard to choose just one painting by Texas artist James B. Janknegt, who generously gave his permission to share his work. This one seemed to reach out especially to so many of my friends who are suffering today, separated from their children, spending Christmas day in the hospital, or waiting for the doctor to come, or looking forward to the new year with fear or dread, or facing the day alone.

See the roses in His palms, red as blood. They began to bloom on Christmas morning, and they are the flowers of love. His arms are outstretched for you.

Music for Christmas Steve

This is Christmas Steve. He appeared on the bottom of my son’s foot on December 24th, as a way of reminding me that some people haven’t had a shower in a while.

As you can see, Christmas Steve is running a little bit behind. Christmas Steve’s house is not clean. Christmas Steve may have made more promises than can reasonably be kept, and Christmas Steve is feeling neither calm nor bright.

However, Christmas Steve is going to make one last stab at getting it together. Christmas Steve is going to breathe slowly, drink plenty of fluids, and pause before speaking. Christmas Steve is going to set a good example for the next person Christmas Steve meets today. And it is going to be a good day.

Here is what Christmas Steve is listening to today (and yes, Christmas Steve is recycling this post from the Register last year):

1. Of the Father’s Love Begotten

Tell me again how there’s this wide, unbridgeable gulf between people who love theology and people who just love God. This is a pure love song, stuffed to the gills with doctrine. Read all the verses here.

2. Creator of the Stars of Night

I don’t know the musical term for this, but notice how each verse ends on a note that goes up, instead of down? But it doesn’t feel unsatisfying. Instead, it creates the impression that here is a song we could continue singing forever. Here we see the difference between a question that can’t be answered, and a question that we can delight in hearing answered forever.

3. The Friendly Beasts

It was strangely difficult to find a plain, pleasant version of this song that wasn’t gooey or groany. Some cowboys do a decent job with this good little Christmas tune.

4. How Bright Appears the Morning Star

I’m torn. The full-on Bach experience makes me feel like I’ve wasted my life, since I’ve never been one of the altos involved in this:

But on the other hand, this Texas Boys Choir does a neat, sweet job of it:

5. In the Bleak Midwinter

Now, give these young folks a chance! This is the Bombay Bicyle Club:

Or, if it’s not to your liking, here is enough Holst to hold you over:

6. Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming

At first I was skeptical at the slow tempo, but now I see how this rendition gives the music all the room it needs to expand, or, well, to bloom. Perfect.

7. Huron Carol

Adapted from a 16th-century French folk song by the missionary martyr John de Brébeuf. This version is in the Huron language and uses instruments like the ones that would have been played at the time.

8. Angels from the Realms of Glory

I couldn’t find the tune I’m more familiar with; so as long as I’m not getting quite what I want, here’s an Annie Lennox version.
Beause it’s Annie Lennox, she sounds earthy and androgynously powerful, but so fragile at the same time — and then it just sort of veers off into that trademark mechanized Annie Lennox boogie hamster wheel. Oh, well. Try it, you might like it!

9. Josef Lieber, Josef Mein

Whenever someone says they love some cheesy Christmas song because it makes Mary seem so familiar and so human, I want to say, “But wait, listen to this!” It doesn’t get more familiar than a young mother turning to her husband and asking for a hand — and he obliges so tenderly. This is a lullaby originally sang during Medieval mystery plays. Here are a few of the verses:

1. “Joseph dearest, Joseph mine,
Help me cradle the child divine;
God reward thee and All that’s thine
In paradise,”
So prays the mother Mary.

2. “Gladly, dear one, lady mine,
Help I cradle this child of thine;
God’s own light on us both shall shine
In paradise,
As prays the mother Mary.”

8. Little man, and God indeed,
Little and poor, thou art all we need;
We will follow where thou dost lead,
And we will heed
Our brother, born of Mary.

10. And of course we must end with In Dulci Jubilo.

Big sound from four singers here!

Today I learned the word “macaronic,” which refers to a style of work where all kinds of languages are thrown together, not necessarily in the most elegant or scholarly way. Like, apparently, a peasant dumpling.

Everyone should try singing this song at one point, if only for the sheer pleasure of saying, “Nun singet und seid froh!” (Pronounced “Noon zinget oond zide fro.”) A tasty, raucous dumpling perfect for the most international feast of all, where the whole world is thrown together to celebrate the birth of our king on Christmas morning.

Pregnant with the light of the world

Today, I’m sharing a few pieces by a talented amateur artist, Teresa von Teichman.

Above, we see our dear mother in a stance that every pregnant woman will recognize! Scholars can argue whether or not she suffered pain in childbirth, but I think it’s a sure thing that her back hurt at some point. She also looks very young, as she must have been in real life; and I love how the stars that form a crown around her bow down with her tired head, and she contemplates the hidden light that waits inside her.

Teresa says:

I just became captivated by the thought of Our Lady being pregnant with Our Lord, the Light of the world. After visiting Medjugorje, Bosnia last year, I have grown more in love with Mary and Jesus than ever before! I am a 22 year old university student who strives to live every moment for greatness, I love a good book, and I work as a part time bartender. I love learning about Mary and am especially fascinated by her many varying images and interpretations. Drawing is just a hobby of mine, all for the glory of God!

Here’s another of Teresa von Teichman’s renditions of the pregnant Mary:

[img attachment=”85200″ align=”alignnone” size=”full” alt=”teichman mary 2″ /]

In this colored drawing, Mary’s Semitic features are more pronounced, and she is surrounded by roses — complete with thorns, as a foretaste of her sorrows to come.

Finally, here is Mary nestled within a bower of roses and thorns:

[img attachment=”85202″ align=”alignnone” size=”full” alt=”teichman mary 3″ /]

Here she is — if I remember right — at the stage of pregnancy where she feels like there is no end of her. The colors in this piece illustrate the intensity of the final days of pregnancy, when the outside world fades to a haze and it is almost impossible to think of anything else besides the child.

Thank you, dear mother, for saying “Yes” to the angel. Thank you for carrying that Baby, for bringing His light into the world, for suffering his passion and death, and thank you for being our mother.

Oh, that final verse!

If you’ve driven down the road on December 26, you’ll see a bunch of denuded Christmas trees, tossed out on their ears by the garbage bins, because their owners think Christmas is over. This is because they haven’t heard the “final verse,” as it were – they haven’t listened to the song all the way through. They don’t realize that Christmas is a beginning, not an end.

We make the same mistake if we pin all our hopes for peace and joy and love on Christmas day, or really on any single day: We haven’t listened to the song all the way through. We’re leaving off the final verse, and that one is vital.

Read the rest at the National Catholic Register. 

What went ye out to see?

“What went ye out to see?” asks Jesus of the crowds who came to see John the Baptist. Here’s a painting of John by Matt Clark, one of my favorite living Christian artists. (You can find my short interview with Clark here, and here is his blog, his Instagram pagehis Pinterest page)

I hadn’t been planning to start running Christmas art until Thursday, but I got this one this morning, and I had to show you. It’s so simple, so lucid, so urgent and direct. (And I have never seen a scroll wrapped around a prophet’s beard before, but now that I’ve seen it, I don’t know why I haven’t seen it before.)

Jesus asks a good question — really the only good question — as we hurry through the final days before Christmas. Why are we doing this? What are we hoping for? And what have we done to prepare?

What did you hope to find on Christmas morning? A God who is impressed by cinnamon buns and glazed ham? A Savior who is satisfied with something you found on Pinterest? Friends, the one thing and only thing that the Christ Child wants for His birthday is the gift of your heart, which you turn over to Him in that dark little box of the confessional.

Figure it out. Find a place. Make a phone call. Get to confession!

 

The doors are open to refugees and reverts. Cue the serpents and doves.

Here’s a fascinating story from the NYT: Norway offers migrants a lesson in how to treat women. It’s not about filtering out terrorists or screening for infiltrators; this is an article about modifying the behavior of people who are who they say they are, and who, because of the accident of birth, behave like aliens because they are aliens. These men have to be taught, very explicitly, that they’re expected to treat women well, and not like objects.

The article says,

Fearful of stigmatizing migrants as potential rapists and playing into the hands of anti-immigrant politicians, most European countries have avoided addressing the question of whether men arriving from more conservative societies might get the wrong idea once they move to places where it can seem as if anything goes.

Uncomfortable implications be damned: you can’t just plunk a bunch of strict Muslim men into a western European city and expect them to be chill about all those women walking around wearing tank tops and drinking beer.  “Back home,” says one immigrant, “only prostitutes do that, and in locally made movies couples ‘only hug but never kiss.’” Where they come from, married women can’t say no to sex, and the rape of a stranger may very well go unpunished. This is just a fact. It doesn’t mean that Muslim men are animals. It means they’ve been raised in a certain way, and have to be reeducated.

So they’re trying to figure out how to let these guys in, but get them to change their behavior:

[W]ith more than a million asylum seekers arriving in Europe this year, an increasing number of politicians and also some migrant activists now favor offering coaching in European sexual norms and social codes

[…]

In Denmark, lawmakers are pushing to have such sex education included in mandatory language classes for refugees. The German region of Bavaria, the main entry point to Germany for asylum seekers, is already experimenting with such classes at a shelter for teenage migrants in the town of Passau.

Norway, however, has been leading the way. Its immigration department mandated that such programs be offered nationwide in 2013, and hired a nonprofit foundation, Alternative to Violence, to train refugee center workers in how to organize and conduct classes on sexual and other forms of violence.

What I like about this approach is that it manages to be compassionate and practical at the same time. It doesn’t scream, “Muslim men are all violent animals, so let’s seal them out of our borders”; but it also doesn’t purr, “Muslims are our brothers, and it’s racist and intolerant to imply that there’s a problem.”

It says, “There is a problem here. Let’s figure out how to work with our Muslim brothers so they figure out what’s expected of them.” They’re being gentle as doves, recognizing that migrants and refugees are fleeing horror and tragedy back home, and are entitled to asylum as human beings — but they’re also being wise as serpents, recognizing that there the huge and disastrous culture shock isn’t going to resolve itself, and someone needs to make it very clear to these guys that Denmark isn’t Eritrea.

I bring this up because it’s a balance we could use in the American Church, as we Catholic “natives” deal with an influx of uncatechised “refugees” from the secular world. Pope Francis really is throwing the doors open, loosening up the borders and reminding us all that the Church is intended to be a place, the place, that welcomes spiritual refugees.

But then what happens? A culture clash. Catholics who were born wearing a scapular and a chapel veil are suddenly rubbing shoulders with folks who wouldn’t recognize an encyclical if it hit them over the head with a crozier.

It’s all too easy to fall back on extremes. Those of us who were lucky enough to be raised Catholic may be tempted to say, “These people are animals! Look at them — they’re irreverent, they don’t know how to dress at Mass, they have all kinds of repulsive heterodox ideas  . . . and we’re just going to let them into our Church? Hell, no.” In these quarters, the word “mercy” is a punchline.

The other extreme, which is just as foolish, is to bleat, “God is love, and love means never having to say you’re sorry.”  In these quarters, beating one’s breast during the Confiteor is considered offensive (or even, for reasons I can’t quite grasp, sexist). We already know how well that approach works out.

So? Cue the serpent doves. Catholicism is all about two things: mercy and repentance. Invitation and response. It has always been about these two things. You have to have both. Catholicism must be inviting; and once we’re in, we have to learn how to behave. We have to have both. Like it or not, believe it or not, we’re getting both.

By all accounts, the final report from the Synod on the Family is a “dove and serpent” statement, reiterating God’s boundless, inconceivably generous welcome, and then following up that welcome with a mandatory instruction on how to become acculturated. I’ve written about this before. The Church invites us to a feast, and then instructs us on how to “dress” as honored guests, so that we will not be cast out into the darkness.

I’m tired, so I’m just going to quote myself now, because when I wrote it, I was quoting Holy Scripture: the part where the King invites his friends, and they don’t turn up — so he throws the doors open and invites everybody, and helps them figure out how to dress for the party.

This is what the Church is doing: it is inviting people to the feast, and it is instructing them in how to “dress” the soul, how to behave as an honored guest so they can participate in the feast — so they can follow up on the invitation. In short, it is teaching us how to be a Catholic.

If a cohabitating couple shows up for a baptism, what do we do? Or if a couple with an un-annulled second marriage, or if a gay couple turns up wanting to lead some ministry, what do we do? Do you slam the door? No, we say, “Come in, and let’s talk about what you have right so far. Then we can figure out what’s  next.”

[A]ll the Synod is saying is what the Church has always said: invite whomever you find, so you can teach them how to be good guests, so we can all enjoy the feast together.

This dove-and-serpent stuff isn’t new. In fact, it couldn’t be older. The question is, will be we be wise enough and innocent enough to understand what the Church is doing? Like it or not, the doors are open.

What’s for supper? Vol. 16: Look upon me, ye foodies, and despair.

In which I attempt very little, and more or less succeed. When I sat down to make the weekly menu, I saw that the schedule was wall-to-wall “have some kind of unpleasant appointment in the morning, rush home to get work done while the baby tries to bite my face off, pick up the kids, and go out again right around dinner, then rush home and stay up late to do that unpleasant thing I signed up for,” and thought, “no-brainer food all week it is.” So that is what we did.

SATURDAY
HAMBURGERS; RAW VEGGIES AND HUMMUS

Nothing to report.

 

SUNDAY
BEEF STEW and CINNAMON BUNS

Sunday was my only chance to do some actual cooking, and this stew was delicious. Steak was cheaper than stew meat, so I used that, plus carrots, onions, mushrooms, potatoes, string beans, and tomatoes, and I even had bay leaves for once.

[img attachment=”84307″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog beef stew” /]

As I used to spoon to bump up the meat and potatoes to the surface for the camera, I was uneasily reminded of certain . . . adjustments  . . . I make before someone takes a picture of me. Remember, woman, that thou art stew, and to stew thou shalt return.

Oh, I do have something that I suppose qualifies as a cooking tip. As I’ve mentioned, I have an unreasonable hatred of unwrapping a bunch of bouillon cubes, but I am too cheap to buy bouillon powder. I also experience irrational resentment while waiting for eight or ten cups of water to boil for broth. I just don’t like it, okay? Grr, water! So instead, I boil one cup of water in a tiny pot and add all the bouillon cubes to that, and add this concentrated broth to the soup pot, and then add the rest of the water. It just feels easier.

The cinnamon buns were okay. I made the dough the night before and let it rise once, then formed the buns and put them in the fridge. My plan was to let them rise again in the morning, then pop them in the oven for St. Lucy’s Day breakfast; but a kid threw up, so cinnamon bun popping didn’t seem like a prudent way to start the day. So I didn’t bake them until they middle of the day, and they had risen too much by that time, so they were kind of dry and bready.

[img attachment=”84308″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog cinnamon buns” /]

But still, homemade cinnamon buns! I used this recipe, skipping the nuts and some ooey gooey elements. The dough came together pretty easily. I hear Pioneer Woman’s recipe is pretty good, so I may try that for Christmas breakfast.

 

MONDAY
FISH TACOS; CORN CHIPS

Fish tacos are fairly new to me, and I was skeptical at first (tacos without cheese? Is outrage), but now I love this dinner, which is very flavorful but much lighter than beef tacos. I used frozen breaded fish fillets, and set out shredded cabbage, wedges of lime, slices of avocado, chopped cilantro, salsa, and sour cream.

[img attachment=”84309″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog fish taco” /]

Annnd WordPress seems to have cropped out everything but the jarred salsa. Behold, my handful of jarred salsa! Look upon me, ye foodies, and despair.

I also got four very seductive-looking mangoes, but they weren’t ripe yet.

A good make-ahead meal. The kids cooked the fish while I was on the radio.

 

TUESDAY
ENGLISH MUFFIN SANDWICHES with ham, egg, and pepper jack cheese

The kids made this while I did something, I don’t even remember.

Tuesday was also my birthday! When we got home from the school concert, my husband had a gorgeous cheesecake sampler waiting, plus my daughter had made cupcakes from scratch. A happy day in the midst of craziness.

 

WEDNESDAY
CHICKEN DRUMSTICKS; SALAD

Chicken roasted ahead of time, served cold. Another make-ahead meal that people could grab and eat at various times while accommodating our ridiculous schedule. Wednesday I was on the radio again, with Jennifer Fulwiler, when I unwittingly helped her create a new promo for the show, saying, “I’m sorry, I have to go. My baby just fell off the bed.”

[img attachment=”84315″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”worlds greatest mom” /]

THURSDAY
SPAGHETTI with MEAT SAUCE; SALAD

I made the sauce in the morning, and the kids cooked the pasta while I fell asleep on the couch.

 

FRIDAY 
TUNA NOODLE CASSEROLE

Gonna make this in a minute, so we can shovel it down before yet another evening concert.

Oh, and I did make six dozen cookies last night. I used this foolproof cut-out cookie recipe, tripled. It tastes like mildly sweetened paper stock, but you can make it all in one bowl (I also have an irrational resentment of mixing dry ingredients in one bowl and adding them to wet ingredients. Maybe I should just have a weekly feature called “What’s My Irrational Resentment?”)(Nah.), and you don’t have to chill it. This makes it a great recipe for making cookies with kids, who mainly like the fun of using cookie cutters and decorating, or for when you are feeling mentally fragile can’t take any chances using a recipe that may or may not comply.

Last time I made royal icing, it turned out more like — what’s the opposite of royal? It was ignoble icing. So I got the store-bought pouches of cookie icing with the built-in tip. Some of them turned out cute enough to impress kids:

[img attachment=”84336″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”cookies 1″ /]

Some, well . . .

[img attachment=”84337″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”cookies 2″ /]

Let’s just call it “A Tribute to Voyage Dans la Lun” and let this week pass away.

 

Kitchens of the Damned

It’s December, the month when bakers lose their minds. Here’s what’s popular this year:

 

 

The Miracle Two-Ingredient Internet Fraud

There are more of these recipes each year, preying on the busy, the gullible, and the lazy. “Get the taste of mom’s real apple pie in these dreamy bars you can whip up in twelve seconds!” Being a trusting soul, you think to yourself, “I would love a taste of mom’s real apple pie, but I simply don’t have the time! Count me in, internet.”

So then it turns out you’re supposed to whirl a graham cracker and a cup of drained lentils in your Vitamix, add a dash of cinnamon, then set them out in the driveway for eight hours in full sun. Break into sharp fragments and call it apple pie, what do I care? Look at me, I’m Sandra Day O’Connor, and here is my husband, David Bowie. As long as we’re calling things whatever we want.

 

The Thumbprint-If-You’re-Lucky Cookie

One of the dirty little secrets of fine restaurateurs is that the fancier a dish is, the more incidental human DNA it contains. Ever been in a five star hotel kitchen? It is, let us say, not the part they usually feature in the brochures. Leaning over sauté pans is a hot and frazzled business, and the waitress may or may not have added her own garnish to your plate, depending on how you responded when she told you that the special was cockaleekie soup. Now double the biologically suspect content of this kitchen, and you have the typical home kitchen.

Care to triple it? Choose one of those novelty treats that requires you to stick a bunch of separate elements together. This one, for instance:  Snow Globe Cupcakes with Gelatin Bubbles. Fabulous, right?  Well, I don’t care if it was baked by the Supreme Hygiene Minister of Switzerland; those suckers are gonna include more fingerprints than a forensics lab, and you could not pay me to put one of them anywhere near my mouth. On the other hand, I do know that I enjoy eating unflavored gelatin that has been handled a lot and then stuck to a balloon, so I can see why it would be worth the trouble.

 

The How-Can-You-Bring-Yourself-to-Call-This-Homemade Recipe

“Cake mix” is cake mix. It is for making a mix cake. It is not an ingredient. The end.

 

The Why-Rome-Fell Monstrosity

This is probably an American thing, but we seem to believe that we really can’t celebrate the birth of our savior without putting together a dessert that is the culinary equivalent of a grand mal seizure. We can’t just have cupcakes. We can’t just have frosted cupcakes. We can’t even just have frosted cupcakes studded with bits of candy. It has to be a cupcake that is frosted with cookie-dough-and-Heath-bar-chunk icing, drizzled with white chocolate and topped with miniature jelly donuts, and then you deep fry the entire thing, roll it in peanut butter, dust with powdered sugar, and cram it inside a double-sized eclair. On a stick.

 

Still feel like baking?

Perhaps you even signed up to make five dozen for the school concert, and you’re stalling because you know your cookies always turn out terrible? Here is a foolproof recipe, with no wacky ingredients and no wild promises, just plain old, regular old cookies that look, taste, and smell like cookies because they are just cookies, and you do not have to chill the dough, for real. Swallow your pride a buy a couple of pouches of that ready-made cookie icing, squirt it on, and call it Christmas.

 

Makes about 24

1 cup butter, softened

1 cup granulated sugar

1 large egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 teaspoons baking powder

3 cups all-purpose flour

 

Preheat oven to 375F. In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar with an electric mixer. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Add baking powder and flour one cup at a time, mixing after each addition.

Dough will be stiff. Do not chill dough. Divide dough in half. Roll each half about 1/8 inch thick. Dip cutters into flour before each use. Bake cookies on ungreased cookie sheet on middle rack of oven for 8-12 minutes, or until cookies are lightly browned.

There is no joke at the end of this post. Just cookies.