Kooky for cookies

This month, cookies aren't just cookies -- they're Christmas cookies. ¶ Sure, you might make peanut butter blossoms in July, but you'd never not make them in December, because it wouldn't be Christmas without them. We talked to three families for whom cookies say Christmas like nothing else, and for whom the gathering and baking and sharing are as much a part of the holiday as the eating. ¶ Probably more.

Brandy and potato flakes

The sheer magnitude of his mother's 100-year-old cookie recipes commands John Nightengale's respect, even awe, for those days before electric mixers. "The quantities are staggering," he said. "Many made 10 or 15 dozen. And they beat all of this with a wooden spoon. No wonder they had big arms."

Nor did they have gas stoves or electric deep- fryers to control their temperatures, but relied on the power of logs or corncobs fed into the flames. "It was much more of an art then."

So yes, Nightengale's annual baking is less strenuous, his recipes more streamlined. But the final tally of cookies? Well, to borrow a phrase: The quantities are staggering.

During a month's worth of baking in his Robbinsdale kitchen, Nightengale, 70, will turn out more than 2,000 cookies -- plus the odd batch of lefse, julekage and flatbread. Many cookies are the fussy Scandinavian kind: 14 dozen each of sandbakkelse, berlinerkranser, rosettes, fattigman and krumkake. Then similar masses of sugar and molasses cookies, and a half-dozen other varieties.

He gives them to friends, relatives and people to whom he's grateful each year. Begging to get on his list won't work. "I get turned off by that," he said. "This is my gift. Don't beg me for a gift."

He reacts similarly to the frequent suggestion that he go into business. "I object to the idea that the ultimate value of something is based on money."

Nightengale began power-baking about 25 years ago, and has developed a number of tips: A little brandy helps krumkake stay crisp. Instant potato flakes, not buds, make the best lefse; and use a tissue to brush off the excess flour. For the deep-fried rosettes, use peanut oil and lots of it. "You need to be able to plunge them in. You need the depth."

All of his rolled and cut cookies first are frozen, then baked, which keeps them from spreading, which explains the knife-edge lines of his sugar cookie stars, as thin as a skin of overnight ice.

A few years ago, the retired insurance agent assembled a recipe book for his nieces and nephews, and he invites them to bake alongside him to preserve the traditions.

"Nothing reinforces Christmas more than cookies," he said. "It's there from childhood. You can't shake it off."

The 'Amen' of the meal

Last Christmas, Millie Rice made her grandchildren cry. Even some of the teenage boys. "I saw them by themselves in the corner," said Bridget Hooley, one of the granddaughters.

The reason was Grandma's gift: a cookbook of the recipes that each of her 24 grandchildren had invented with her over the years. You won't see these cookies anywhere else. Triple Turtle Surprise, Dutch Choco-Meal Cookies, Vanilla Mershes, Hula Monster Delight -- these are what 10-year-old brains create when given the chance.

The project began, as many do, with no grand plan. Rice, now 78, had each grandchild stay with her and her husband for a week in St. Cloud. In 1992, she was just about at her wits' end with high-energy Tommy. She asked him what kind of flavors and ingredients he liked, pulled them from the cupboards, and they began experimenting, learning about proportion and chemistry along the way.

The other grandchildren quickly caught on to the fun, and a tradition was born.

"We'd mix up a single cookie, then tweak it until we got right," Rice said. "Quite often, the first effort would be a flop because we were just putting ingredients together. But we always ended up with a box of cookies to take home, and a recipe card."

Bridget, who dropped by with her twin sister, Maggie, on their way home to Stillwater from the College of St. Benedict, reminisced about their inventions.

"I think I wanted to throw in nine different candy bars and you said, 'Why don't you pick your top two?'" she said, laughing. She ended up with a peanut butter-flavored cookie wrapped around a piece of caramel, which melted inside. Maggie still brings her chocolate-frosted, cashew-topped, oatmeal butterscotch chip cookies to choir practice.

The cookies reflect the kids: Artistic Hanna wanted color and added dried fruit. Imaginative Meghan called her cookie a "tot" for no discernible reason. Mischievous Daniel called his mud balls, "and I thought, 'Oh, ho, I know what this kid is thinking,'" said Grandma Rice, who then had to brag: "He started out using chocolate pudding as a dry ingredient. What kid would think of that?"

Despite such a baking tradition, Bridget marveled that everyone has remained so slender. "I'm convinced that to stay thin, you need a dessert after every meal!"

She laughed, but her grandma said that it makes sense. "When you have a cookie -- just one -- that sweet taste means you're done eating," she said. "My mother always said, 'That's the "Amen" of the meal.'"

Smart, sensible and pretty bakers

For 20 years, Elaine Malm, now 85, and her three daughters have convened on the first Saturday of December to bake Christmas cookies -- between 2,000 and 2,500 cookies.

This year, they made 33 dozen spritz cookies, 300 peanut butter cups, 100 chocolate-dipped ginger snaps, enough peanut butter blossoms to be graced with 4 pounds of chocolate stars, umpteen dipped pretzels ... at some point, they tend to lose count.

Janet Edwards probably knows; she's "the smart one." Or maybe Jean Mrozinski, "the one with common sense," keeps track. Nola Weber -- "I'm the youngest and prettiest" -- can't be bothered. Throughout this clearly familiar shtick, which never really stops, Malm laughs, because once again, they're baking together.

"It's isn't about the cookies," Edwards said. "It's the family."

The group has grown over the years to include grandchildren, daughters-in-law and now great-grandchildren who are pressed into duty unwrapping chocolate kisses and after-dinner mints. One grandson, now in college, will never outlive the tale of the year he bit the tip off each and every chocolate kiss.

Edwards, of Hugo, also known as "the traditional one," started the annual event. "The first couple of years were kind of a nightmare," said (young, pretty) Weber, of Maplewood. "It was a matter of getting things timed better."

It's helped to shift to some treats that need only a microwave oven, such as melting dipping chocolate for the pretzels. The peanut butter balls are no-bake. ("Skippy should have us do an endorsement," said Malm, who lives in Roseville.) Still, Edwards' double oven doesn't get a break all day.

This year, Malm made her dozens of rolled and cut sugar cookies at home, but saved the frosting duties for the gathering. "These are the signature cookies," she said, giving each a swipe of pale pink icing that Mrozinski, of Oakdale, mixed with admirable common sense. The sight of those cookies led to reminiscing about Malm's husband, who died last year and who wouldn't miss the annual baking day for all the world.

"He would put just the tiniest bit of frosting on the cookies," Edwards recalled of her thrifty father. "I'd tell him, 'Dad! I make a good living! Put a little frosting on those cookies!'"

At lunchtime, all the husbands show up for Sloppy Joes -- another tradition -- and also to get the youngsters outside to burn off some energy. The Elvis Christmas album will kick in, the cookies will be divvied up into large foil roasting pans, and the Christmas season will, once again, begin in earnest.

Kim Ode • 612-673-7185