The Darker Side of Alfajores

Must give credit where credit is due. Last Thursday evening, a very strange event came to pass. Shannon spent time in her kitchen. No, not eating over the kitchen sink (at midnight), not making her regular morning coffee, but actually cooking.

You might think this to be nothing worth reporting, but that's because I teased with you tales of a cheesecake before. Understand, dear audience (both of you), that cooking is not my usual Thursday night activity. But I got inspired.

By karaoke.

My best photo of Clay (onstage) and Nichole, ever

When Happy Hour on Friday turns into Crazy Karaoke Night, it's very inspiring. And after howling at a smattering of Austin's public with Clay/Nichole and another fabulous couple, I was inspired.

Inspired to clean up my dance habits so as not to collect so many bruises, but also inspired to make cookies for the fabulous couple's upcoming Christmas party, which I would miss while in New Mexico to see the in-laws.

I could see from their mad skills at the karaoke mic that it would be a holiday gathering of the shindiggiest proportions. I wanted to sweetly express my regrets--via cookies--and asked that they tell me their favorites.

Peanut butter and snickerdoodle. Respectable cookie preferences; sign of a cool couple for sure.

Which brings me to Thursday Night. The night where snickerdoodles, double peanut blossoms, and alfajores were born in the Clark Kitchen.

Wait a second, Shannon, what on earth does this post have to do with not buying clothes? Can't you write to a prompt? Can't you stay on topic?

Okay, heckler inside my head, here you go: I wore an apron. And not a beautiful new one from Anthro, despite my lusting, but the sweet one given by my mom a few years back. I did accessorize it with our new potholders, but I think they were a necessary addition to the kitchen and do not count as articles of clothing.

My, my. Isn't she a vision?

So yeah. I probably don't need to explain my desire to make alfajores, not after my previous sonnet-like references.

But I've never made peanut blossoms before, and I really wanted to do the double version to make the peanut butter cookies extra awesome. I mean, it was going to be an awesome party given by awesome people.

So double peanut blossoms--I can't share a recipe for those; I scrawled it on a napkin from somewhere and followed that. But basically it's a peanut butter cookie recipe. Instead of pressing the cookies with a fork before baking, you bake them as little dough balls. Then you shove a Reese's pb cup on top straight out of the oven and let them cool. Fancy.

Brendon was kind enough to sample these. Verdict: yummy.

Also attempted the Snickerdoodles for the first time, thanks, Real Simple. Of course I didn't have cream of tartar in our tiny pantry (who does? why?), but just tossed out that and the baking soda and used 2 tsps of baking powder instead. I think it worked.

Snickerdoodles + super fancy recipe napkin

But enough of that. I'm here to tell you about the alfajores. The mother of all cookies. The alpha, if you will.

The cookies that will most likely induce cussing, tears, and drinking.

While I'll be kind and include the recipe for you, I'm going to tell you how they're really done.

Step 1: Strategize.

You will need to do a lot of research and planning for these cookies, so be sure to eat as many of them whenever encountered. Yes, eat them at 3 in the morning after drinking too much Malbec, yes, eat them at breakfast when included in the buffet. Yes, eat them from the boxes you brought back to the US. Then fantasize about producing them en masse a la Betty Crocker from your own kitchen, and feel so inspired that you purchase the ingredients and plan to bring these delicious souvenirs to your in-laws the second weekend in December.

Step 2: Abandon the recipe when it abandons you.

It tells you to chill the dough in the fridge, so you oblige by waking up too early Thursday morning to mix it up and letting that dough chill while you're at work. All it does is become a hard, cold ball of unworkable pain, and that hurts your feelings.

You do your best to warm it back up to the point of being rollout-able, but at that point it's just a crumbly, warm mess. Your husband raises his eyebrows from the other room at your creative use of a few words.

The recipe told you to add a "few drops" of milk in case of crumbliness. You've added a swimming pool's worth of the only white liquid in your fridge (Almond Breeze) and are now feeling rather crumbly yourself. Luckily there is a bottle of Cabernet available. You partake.

Step 3: Create an army to win the baking battle.

Once your dough has drunk the milk and you have drunk the wine, you'll find both it and yourself to be feeling more flexible. Take out your Christmas cookie cutters to press out an army and forest. 

You have made both men and trees, which will momentarily make you feel high and mighty. Revel in this hubris, for it will get you through the next step.

Step 4: Maintain your dignity with the help of coconut.

It never occurred to you that the coconut on the sides of these sandwich cookies was helping to hold in the creamy dulce de leche in the middle. You suddenly hate dulce de leche for its creamy, gooey properties.

Luckily you've abandoned the recipe at this point and did not make this caramel-like center yourself; it's coming from an e-z squeeze bottle. You wonder briefly when they'll make wine in an e-z squeeze bottle, take another swig of the latter, and continue to watch the filling of your once-beautiful alfajor spill down the sides of your tree like a bloody mess.

Can you call a cookie a douchebag? I'm here to tell you that yes, yes you can.

But the wine makes you creative (and pretty and smart, as we all know) and you figure out how to carefully spread the dulce de leche with a knife, sprinkle coconut around the edges, then make the sandwich. This prevents the unattractive oozing that following the recipe's sandwich-making instructions causes.

This also means that you have one gross-looking tree that you get to sample. Because you'd never give an ugly cookie as a gift, and by this point you kinda want to bite something.

Step 5: Package with class, because you have no idea if other people will like them.

Seriously, you should go to great lengths to make these boxes of cookies look awesome. That way people will be smiling when they consider eating the wrapping instead of the cookie in their mouth.

Actually, just enjoy the wrapping itself, because the successful feeling you'll have only extends as far as your cookies will travel. While you'll get the alfajores safely delivered to your in-laws in New Mexico, the double peanut blossoms and snickerdoodles will never actually make it to the Christmas party and you'll feel silly about spending a blog post writing about them.

But no matter. Clearly feeling silly shouldn't prevent an admirable endeavor.

And I'm thankful that Brendon and his family produced enough "Mmm!" sounds while eating the alfajores to assure me that they, too, were enjoying those damn cookies perhaps as much as I do. 

Perhaps that will be enough to encourage me to try these again. I mean, I still have another bottle of wine in the kitchen, so I'm set, right?