The Key Ingredient Read Online Free Page A
Author: Susan Wiggs
the mixer, the baking sheets and the rest of the ingredients. Combine the butter with a half cup of vegetable oil, a half cup of canned pumpkin, three-Âquarter cup of white sugar, three-Âquarter cup of brown sugar and a teaspoon of vanilla.
Beat in two eggs, fresh ones from your own henhouse, if possible. Then, with the mixer turning on low, add the dry ingredientsâÂfour cups of flour, one-Âfourth teaspoon baking soda, one-Âfourth teaspoon cream of tartar, a half teaspoon of salt and a teaspoon of pumpkin-Âpie spice.
Scoop onto parchment-Âlined baking sheets and flatten the scoops with the bottom of a glass. Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about nine minutes. As soon as the edges start to brown, theyâre ready.
Make the glaze by combining three cups of powdered sugar with a half teaspoon of pumpkin-Âpie spice and about four tablespoons of maple syrupâÂjust enough to create a thick consistency. Drizzle the icing over the warm cookies. Try not to eat them all while you wait for the glaze to set.
Iâve never been good at waiting. Things take as long as they take. Gran used to tell me that at Thanksgiving, when it seemed as if the turkey would never be done.
We all crowd into the big farmhouse. Itâs warm inside, and the caterers hired for the shoot are putting out a spread of morning-Âglory muffins and trays of fruit. The camera crew starts setting up. For me, this is where the real picture comes into focus. I step inside the frame, relaxed and self-Âassured, knowing itâs where I belong.
Iâm standing in the center of the big country kitchen, organizing the set-Âup. Thereâs a riverstone fireplace and a large painting on the wall, a landscape my mother did of Rush Mountain at the height of Vermontâs autumn glory. Thereâs no glory here now. Gray-Âtoned winter light leaks in through the alcove windows that surround the scrubbed wooden dining table.
The table is hand-Âmade of taphole maple by my grandfather. Back when he honed the planks smooth in his woodworking shop, he assumed he was merely being thrifty by finding a new use for the tapped-Âout maple trees of our sugarbush. A tapped-Âout tree no longer yields a sap run in the late-Âwinter thaw. It has to be cut down and used for firewood or milled for lumber. Nowadays, taphole maple, with its patterns created by the spikes drilled into the wood, is not a matter of thrift. The distinctively patterned wood is highly prized by custom builders and marketed as a rare luxury item.
In the Vermont sugarbush area, itâs not rare at all, although most Âpeople wouldnât know that.
Iâve always loved that table, not just the look of it, but its flaws as well. The scratches and divots itâs sustained through the years are a road map of its life with my family. The dark and light ripples of maplewood have been a silent witness to our familyâs joys and celebrations, moments of soaring triumph, and sometimes trouble and tragedy. Its surface has been marred by spilled candle wax from countless birthdays, hot pans set down too soon, ink from an old-Âfashioned pen, broken pottery, an angry fist slamming down, a pattern scratched with a butter knife by a bored child.
While seated around the table, weâve dealt with all of life. Straight-ÂA report cards. Money troubles. Getting a varsity letter on the Switchback Wildcats swim team. A college scholarship. Laughter over everyday happeningsâÂa new puppy, a failed cake recipe, a goofy joke perfectly delivered by my brother, Kyle, funny photos just back from being developed at the drugstore. Tears were shed at that table as wellâ Your father and I are getting a divorce. The dog died. Gramps had an accident.
Yet even through the worst of times, there was a sense of belonging. A safety net to catch me no matter how hard I fell.
My spot at the table was by the heating vent, next to Gran. In the
Beat in two eggs, fresh ones from your own henhouse, if possible. Then, with the mixer turning on low, add the dry ingredientsâÂfour cups of flour, one-Âfourth teaspoon baking soda, one-Âfourth teaspoon cream of tartar, a half teaspoon of salt and a teaspoon of pumpkin-Âpie spice.
Scoop onto parchment-Âlined baking sheets and flatten the scoops with the bottom of a glass. Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about nine minutes. As soon as the edges start to brown, theyâre ready.
Make the glaze by combining three cups of powdered sugar with a half teaspoon of pumpkin-Âpie spice and about four tablespoons of maple syrupâÂjust enough to create a thick consistency. Drizzle the icing over the warm cookies. Try not to eat them all while you wait for the glaze to set.
Iâve never been good at waiting. Things take as long as they take. Gran used to tell me that at Thanksgiving, when it seemed as if the turkey would never be done.
We all crowd into the big farmhouse. Itâs warm inside, and the caterers hired for the shoot are putting out a spread of morning-Âglory muffins and trays of fruit. The camera crew starts setting up. For me, this is where the real picture comes into focus. I step inside the frame, relaxed and self-Âassured, knowing itâs where I belong.
Iâm standing in the center of the big country kitchen, organizing the set-Âup. Thereâs a riverstone fireplace and a large painting on the wall, a landscape my mother did of Rush Mountain at the height of Vermontâs autumn glory. Thereâs no glory here now. Gray-Âtoned winter light leaks in through the alcove windows that surround the scrubbed wooden dining table.
The table is hand-Âmade of taphole maple by my grandfather. Back when he honed the planks smooth in his woodworking shop, he assumed he was merely being thrifty by finding a new use for the tapped-Âout maple trees of our sugarbush. A tapped-Âout tree no longer yields a sap run in the late-Âwinter thaw. It has to be cut down and used for firewood or milled for lumber. Nowadays, taphole maple, with its patterns created by the spikes drilled into the wood, is not a matter of thrift. The distinctively patterned wood is highly prized by custom builders and marketed as a rare luxury item.
In the Vermont sugarbush area, itâs not rare at all, although most Âpeople wouldnât know that.
Iâve always loved that table, not just the look of it, but its flaws as well. The scratches and divots itâs sustained through the years are a road map of its life with my family. The dark and light ripples of maplewood have been a silent witness to our familyâs joys and celebrations, moments of soaring triumph, and sometimes trouble and tragedy. Its surface has been marred by spilled candle wax from countless birthdays, hot pans set down too soon, ink from an old-Âfashioned pen, broken pottery, an angry fist slamming down, a pattern scratched with a butter knife by a bored child.
While seated around the table, weâve dealt with all of life. Straight-ÂA report cards. Money troubles. Getting a varsity letter on the Switchback Wildcats swim team. A college scholarship. Laughter over everyday happeningsâÂa new puppy, a failed cake recipe, a goofy joke perfectly delivered by my brother, Kyle, funny photos just back from being developed at the drugstore. Tears were shed at that table as wellâ Your father and I are getting a divorce. The dog died. Gramps had an accident.
Yet even through the worst of times, there was a sense of belonging. A safety net to catch me no matter how hard I fell.
My spot at the table was by the heating vent, next to Gran. In the
Readers choose
Tanya R. Taylor
Leanda de Lisle
Douglas Adams
E.A. Whitehead
Diane Collier
Cindy Gerard
Linda Howard
Peter Howe
Shirlee McCoy
Carina Bartsch