Hansel and Gretel’s Grahams


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A recipe that veered from the graham crumbs and was lost in the woods.

How promisingly it all began once upon a time, with whole-wheat pastry flour roasting in the oven, a whiff of Lebkuchen traipsing through the kitchen. How bakerly I felt, roasting flour, a preparation lazy stepmothers would surely skip. How diligently I sifted the dry ingredients, just to prove my mettle.

And then the little voice said: Molasses. Blackstrap Molasses.

One oughtn’t listen to the little voices. One ought to scarper when one hears:

Knupper, knupper, Kneischen,

Wer knuppert an meinem Häuschen?


Nibble, nibble, gnaw

who is nibbling at my little house.

But I nipped up the bait without half a second’s thought.

Graham crackers became something more akin to gingerbread or Pfefferkuchen, baked brown as the ovened witch.

So wander off the trail with me, into the molasses mire. With these bronzed biscuits you are sure to ensnare any nibbler who meanders by your cookie jar. And the grahams would make tempting roof tiles for your candy cottage in the woods, too.



Hansel and Gretel’s Grahams

Strayed from Vegan Miam


  • 1 ½ cups whole-wheat pastry flour
  • 1/3 cup sugar
  • ½ teaspoon cinnamon
  • ¼ teaspoon baking soda
  • ¼ teaspoon salt
  • 1/3 cup oil
  • ¼ cup blackstrap molasses
  • 2 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract
  • 2-4 tablespoons water


Preheat the oven to 350° F. Spread the flour on a piece of parchment paper in a rimmed baking sheet. Toast the flour for 10 minutes.

Sift together the flour, sugar, cinnamon, baking soda, and salt. Whisk to combine.

In a separate bowl whisk together the oil, molasses, and vanilla. Stir the wet ingredients into the dry (the mixture will be crumbly). Add two tablespoons of water and mix until well distributed. Let the dough sit for five minutes to allow maximal liquid absorption (this is a good time to start in on the dishes!). Add additional water one tablespoon at a time until dough readily forms a ball but is not wet to the touch.

Roll out the dough between parchment paper until dough sheet measures ¼ inch thick. Slice into whatever shapes tempt your fancy. Transfer cookies to a baking sheet and reroll the dough for another round of slicing. Prick the cookies with a fork before placing in the oven for 10-11 minutes. Rotate the pan halfway through baking time. Cookies are ready to be removed from the oven when the tops are dry and the bottoms are beginning to brown. Let cool on a wire rack.

Bonus recipe! Cookie butter! Cookie butter!


Not Potter’s Peppermint Humbugs


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Peppermint humbugs

I am still waiting for my owl.

I imagine she was blown off course in the polar vortex. I expect she will be blustering down the chimney any day now, disheveled and discombobulated. I will keep some owl treats by the hearth just in case she needs a wee morsel before she spirals off with my enthusiastic acceptance.

I am already hungry for the start of term feast. That cornucopia of anglospheric delicacies cascading over miles of table. Surely the oaken planks must be buttressed by magic to bolster them against collapse under the rhinocerial weight of the entrées, each more potatoed than the next, a cow’s worth of butter dripping from every course.

It is a logophile’s feast. I wolf them down, for I am a gourmand of the fricasseed fricative and the glacéed glide. Kippers, Cornish pasties, crumpets, spotted dick, treacle tart, trifle, chipolatas, chocolate éclairs, and for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

To an eleven-year-old of Islington such words would bloom with familiar flavors and aromas. But this child of rice-a-roni and mac-n-cheese had only exotic syllables with which to construct her image of the feast. Peppermint humbugs evolved minty innards, sheathed in a dark chocolate exoskeleton. They are glossy beetle-like creatures that might skittle off your saucer if you didn’t pin them with the oyster fork. In a pinch, they can replace lost pawns in a game of wizard’s chess. At the end of term, their frangible remains are often found under the hand-me-down socks in your trunk, where they curled up to hibernate during the blizzards.

I have for you here a recipe that skeined from my mind like memories into a pensieve. No, it is not the traditional British sweet of boiled sugar. It is the peppermint humbug of my logophagus imagination.

Peppermint humbugs

Not Potter’s Peppermint Humbugs


  • 1 ½ cups powdered sugar
  • 1 tablespoon nondairy milk
  • ¼ teaspoon peppermint extract
  • 1 tablespoon coconut oil
  • 4 ounces dark and/or semisweet chocolate
  • 1 teaspoon coconut oil


Combine the sugar, milk, peppermint, and 1 tablespoon coconut oil in a bowl (if the oil is not quite soft, heat it briefly). Stir until a pasty dough forms. Pinch off a nibble and add more peppermint if taste demands. The mixture may seem crumbly, but when you work it gently with your hands it should readily form a ball as your body warmth heats the oil. If not, add a touch more oil.

Place the ball between two sheets of parchment paper and roll the dough into a sheet ¼ inch thick. Cut small rounds from the dough (I used a miniature jam jar with a mouth diameter of 1 3/8” in lieu of a cookie cutter). Re-roll the scraps and continue cutting rounds until all the dough is used up. Place the rounds on pieces of parchment paper, layer in a flat-bottomed container, and freeze until firm.

Melt the chocolate with the remaining oil, stirring frequently. Remove the peppermint rounds from the freezer. One by one, submerge the rounds in the chocolate, using a fork to remove and place on parchment paper. Transfer the parchment paper pieces to a baking sheet and freeze until the chocolate is set. Store the peppermint humbugs layered on parchment paper in the freezer.

*Bonus recipe!*

Some of your peppermint centers might crumble at one stage or another. Do not despair. There will also be a few spoonfuls of leftover melted chocolate. Combine the chocolate with the mints in a cup of nondairy milk, heat, stirring occasionally, and magic! The most splendid cup of cocoa outside the halls of Hogwarts or Honeydukes.

White Chocolate Cashew Butter Cookies


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Cashew butter white chocolate chunk cookies

I rush to rise, to dress, to work, to bed. Summer sands slipping through the hourglass—too swift.


My book careens into climax and I stay up too late to read and read and read. Luxury. Time slows. A single cookie survives 30 pages. In a time-lapse flipbook watch the cookie wane by nibbled crescents. Bites stolen between breathless page turns.

Summer speeds away in the slipstream if I hurtle towards September at high velocity.

Now I Stop. Savor. Summer oozes by languorous as melting ice cream.


White Chocolate Cashew Butter Cookies or Savor Summer Cookies

Adapted From Blissful Basil

10-12 cookies


  • 1 cup cashew butter
  • ¾ cup brown sugar
  • 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
  • ¼ cup nondairy milk
  • 2/3 cup oat flour
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • ¼ teaspoon salt
  • ½ recipe cake batter fudge, chopped into small chunks (or vegan white chocolate chips)

Preheat oven to 350° F. Cream together the cashew butter and sugar until very well combined. Stir in the vanilla and almond milk. In a separate bowl (or the food processor if you just used it to make your oat flour) combine the oat flour, baking soda, and salt. Stir the dry ingredients into the wet, mixing just until dough forms. Fold in the fudge chunks or white chocolate. Using an ice cream scoop, place balls of dough 2 inches apart on a cookie sheet. Bake 10-14 minutes or until edges are set and beginning to brown.

Bonus recipe! Throw a few cookies in the food processor with a splash of almond milk and process into a luscious, caramelly cookie butter (more cookie butter recipes here and here).

Half-Blood Nectar or Percy Jackson’s Liquid Chocolate Chip Cookies


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“Don’t strain yourself,” Grover said. “Here.” He helped me hold my glass and put the straw to my lips.

I recoiled at the taste, because I was expecting apple juice. It wasn’t that at all. It was chocolate-chip cookies. Liquid cookies. And not just any cookies—my mom’s homemade blue chocolate-chip cookies, buttery and hot, with the chips still melting. Drinking it, my whole body felt warm and good, full of energy. My grief didn’t go away, but I felt as if my mom had just brushed her hand against my cheek, given me a cookie the way she used to when I was small, and told me everything was going to be okay.

-The Lightning Thief, Rick Riordan

Liquid chocolate chip cookies. I have been dreaming about the divine nectar since the day I drooled over those pages of Lightning Thief. Unfortunately, I have not yet battled my way to Camp Half-Blood to taste it for myself. Fortunately, I have not yet had to watch my mother mauled by a Minotaur. While I wait for the monsters to catch scent of my hybridized blood and chase me to the ivy-twined columns of Camp, I will whip up another batch of this recipe. I cannot swear by the Styx that it tastes authentic, but if you don’t find it uncannily delicious I’ll polish your armor in time for the next Capture the Flag tournament and make an offering to your Olympian DNA-donor.


Half-Blood Nectar or Percy Jackson’s Liquid Chocolate Chip Cookies

Serves two mortals or one hungry half-blood


  • 1 tablespoon vegan butter
  • 2 tablespoons flour (add an extra tablespoon if you desire a more puddingy texture)
  • 1 ½ cups nondairy milk (the more neutral the flavor the better, unless you desire almond or coconut flavored cookie drink, in which case use the corresponding milk)
  • 2-3 tablespoons brown sugar, to taste
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • ¼ teaspoon baking soda
  • pinch of salt
  • 2-3 tablespoons chocolate chips


Whisk together the butter and flour in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Cook for 3-5 minutes. The roux paste should be fragrant but should not be allowed to burn. Whisk in the rest of the ingredients. Bring to a low boil and cook for 10-15 minutes, whisking frequently. Remove from heat when desired consistency is obtained (the nectar will thicken more as it cools). Allow to cool completely before stirring in the chocolate chips.


Hot Fudge + Caramel Sauce Cookie Butters


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Caramel sauce + hot fudge

Are you smearing peanut butter on your hands?!? yelps my brother in the tone one might use if one came upon one’s sister dangling her bare feet over a snarling wood chipper.

It’s a sauce I made. I’m taking a photo for Scribbler, I reply.

EWW! He was the three-year-old who ordered the toys back onto the shelf in Marine Corps rows when adults took them down for playtime. He was the four-year-old who shed tears when spaghetti sauce bled into the salad, and refused to eat until served a fresh dish with inch-wide margins around each component.

My brother would never web his fingers with caramel sauce. My brother would never plunge his hands into piping hot fudge. My brother would never toss cookies and almond milk in a food processor just to see what might happen. If my brother were a proton, I would be an electron. If my brother were AC, I would be DC. If my brother were insulin, I would be glucagon.

I tossed oreos and almond milk in the food processor and found hot fudge. I tossed Speculoos cookies and cake batter fudge in the food processor and found caramel sauce. I have tiptoed tamely in the footsteps of many a vegan hot fudge and caramel sauce recipe and each time I was disappointed. My serendipitous cookie butter sauces won’t fool omni taste buds, but they are spoon-licking scrumptious on their own merit.

Throw caution to the winds. Throw cookies in food processors. Smother your fingers in sauce and glee.

Caramel sauce + hot fudge

Hot Fudge Cookie Butter


  • 12 Oreo-like sandwich cookies
  • nondairy milk


Combine the cookies with a splash of milk in the bowl of a food processor. Process until silky smooth, scraping down the sides occasionally. Add more milk to reach a spoonable consistency. As the machine heats up, the sauce will thin. Transfer to a jar and store in the fridge. Reheat to serve.

Caramel Sauce Cookie Butter


  • 1 package Speculoos cookies or 7 ounces of any other crisp toffee flavored cookie
  • ½ a batch of cake batter fudge
  • nondairy milk


Warm the fudge until it softens. Combine the softened fudge and cookies in the bowl of a food processor. Process until silky smooth, scraping down the sides occasionally. Add milk if necessary to reach a spoonable consistency. As the machine heats up, the fudge will melt and become fully incorporated with the sauce, giving it a sticky caramel texture. Transfer to a jar and store in the fridge. Reheat to serve.

Elemental Bread


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No-knead bread

Earth. Air. Fire. Water.

A confluence of the four elementals in every bite.

From the soil, grain is harvested slender and strong. On vagrant zephyrs, wild yeasts fly to play hide-and-seek in the caverned crumb. In the blistering forge, the crust, a breastplate shielding the tender heart, is tempered to a burnished resilience. Viscous as rain-drunk mud, the dough metamorphoses, yet maintains the moist, salty bite of a sea breeze.

Bread is my anchor. I do not eat it mindlessly. Each bite is a meditation. I remember where it comes from. I remember where I come from. I am a Gressani, from the land of Ciabatta and Grissini. I am a Gregor, from the land of Bretzeln und Brötchen. I am an Iglesias, from the lands of Mallorca and Barra Gallega. I am from soils I have never walked, winds I have never breathed, fires I did not light, and seas I have never swum. I am the bread I eat.

Bread is sacred. Bread is a mystery. The ancients knew this and scratched it into their scrolls. The pathetic beige pillow plastic-sacked on the supermarket shelf is not bread. The sandy bricks that used to emerge from my oven were not bread. So I went on many a pilgrimage to seek the holy icon far from home.

Then, an epiphany. The overnight no-knead loaf. Could such a humble recipe truly give birth to the primeval force that binds the elements, that binds me to my origins, that binds the religions of the world? What a leap of faith to turn my back on the barely mixed dough, to watch it turn into a bubbled mire belching acrid gas, to place the bloated lump into a stockpot.

I waited. I hoped. I kept faith. And Earth, Air, Fire, and Water brought a gold-crusted miracle from my oven.

No-knead bread

Elemental Bread

From Simply So Good


  • 3 cups all purpose flour
  • 1 ¾ teaspoons salt
  • ½ teaspoon yeast
  • 1 ½ cups water


Heat ¼ cup water until it is warm enough for a baby’s bath and doesn’t burn your finger when you swirl it. Stir in the yeast and let proof for five minutes. (If you are using instant yeast you can skip the proofing and whisk it with the dry ingredients.) Whisk together the flour and salt. Stir the proofed yeast and 1 ¼ cups water into the dry ingredients and mix just until a shaggy dough forms. Cover in plastic wrap and wait for the magic to happen. After 12-20 hours the dough should have doubled or tripled in size and the surface should be pocked with little holes.

Preheat the oven to 450° F. Gently scrape the dough onto a floured board, trying to deflate it as little as possible. Shape it into a round, place on a piece of parchment paper, and cover with plastic wrap for at least 30 minutes. When the oven reaches 450° F, place a deep-sided, oven-safe pot onto a middle rack and let heat for 30 minutes. When the dough round has risen, slash an X into the center of the round and carefully place it in the heated pot, using the parchment paper as a sling. Cover the pot with aluminum foil if you, like me, do not have lovely cast iron ware with an oven-safe lid. Bake for 30 minutes covered, and then 15 minutes uncovered. The bread is ready when the crust is golden and the loaf sounds hollow when you knock gently on the bottom.

Nostos Cookie [or A Cookie as Big as My Face]


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Vegan browned butter cookie

The streets are crypt quiet. No moths serenade the burntout porch light. The girl is submerged in her novel. When all of a sudden—IT strikes! The irrepressible compulsion to make cookie dough. The clock’s hands may be pointing towards bed, but cookie dough is chronomentrophobic. In my pre-hypnogogic state little voices whisper to me: browned butter, beurre noisette, hints of hazelnut, toffee tint. Vegan browned butter? Another mythological beast of the culinary landscape perhaps, but seek it I will.

Of course, cookie dough tonight means cookies tomorrow, for chilling is hardly optional where liquid lipids are involved. As the butter effervesces in the saucepan, I see visions in the steam. A kitchen Sybil reading my own future: a fresh-baked cookie as big as my face will be mine tomorrow when I return home from work.

If, as far as I remember, my mother never greeted me with fresh cookies after school, can I still be nostalgic for the notion of the Nostos cookie? I nostalgize just about everything. I have 51 pages (and counting), Times New Roman 12 point, of memories from age 3-11. The dream years. The dawn years. The years that I fear might dissipate, might vanish in the scarring sunlight of adulthood. So I snatch up scintillant tatters of nostalgia, even those that don’t belong to me. I am a magpie twining together a nest of memory.

I have appropriated into my narrative the Nostos cookie, that sweet treat that welcomes the traveler home. If only Penelope had been struck by the cookie dough compulsion on the eve of Odysseus’s return. Confronted by a cookie as big as his face, even obnoxious Antinous would fall silent. Crackling edges and center still molten would seduce the suitor-squatters into a gastromanic binge. Eyes glazed, stomachs distended, they could be shepherded peacefully from the hall, and live out the rest of their days in porcine captivity under the watchful eye of Eumaeus. The courtyards of the man of many wiles would run not with blood but with bittersweet chocolate.

Vegan browned butter cookie

Nostos Cookie [or A Cookie as Big as My Face]

Vegan browned butter method borrowed from Vegan Fatty


  • ½ stick (¼ cup) vegan butter (I use Earth Balance)
  • 1 tablespoon nondairy milk (I use almond)
  • 1 tablespoon + 1 ½ teaspoons water
  • 1 ½ teaspoons flax seed meal
  • ½ cup + 3 tablespoons flour
  • 3 tablespoons quick oats
  • ¼ teaspoon baking soda
  • scant ¼ teaspoon salt
  • ¼ cup + 2 tablespoons gently packed brown sugar
  • splash of vanilla
  • 1 ½ ounces (about ¼ cup) roughly chopped chocolate


Combine the butter and milk in a saucepan over medium low heat. Melt, whisking occasionally. When the butter begins to hiss and spit, cook for another five minutes or so, whisking frequently. Trust your nose to tell you when to remove the butter from the heat because this is browned butter in name and flavor only, not in color.

While the butter melts, stir together the water and ground flax in a small bowl and let them sit to gel up. Sift or whisk together the flour, oats, baking soda, and salt.

Allow the butter to rest for a few minutes after you have removed it from the heat. Then add the brown sugar, mixing well. Next stir in the flax mixture and vanilla.

Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture, stirring just until combined. Fold in the chocolate bits (make sure the dough isn’t so warm that it will melt the chocolate). Chill the dough, covered, until your long lost traveler is at the doorstep.

Preheat the oven to 350° F and let the dough rest on the countertop for 15-20 minutes or until nearly room temperature. Lightly grease a cookie sheet and shape the dough into a round about 1 ½ inches thick. Bake for 12-15 minutes, or until the edges are set and beginning to brown. Share with your seafaring beau, or serve the biscuit whole to an obnoxious suitor.

Midsummer Nectarine Duff for Titania


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Nectarine Duff

Over hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier,

Over park, over pale,

Thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander everywhere,

Swifter than the moon’s sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen,

To dew her orbs upon the green.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act II, Scene 1

Nectarine Duff

I shall serve the fairy queen this nectarine fancy on saucers of cowslip’s ear. Just for you, Titania, have I nicked a nectarine from every tree in the orchard to find the fairest of fruits. Just for you, I choreographed the juicy crescents in concentric whorls, as sprites dance in a ring. Just for you, the first slice, edges buttery crisp, the fruit melting languid as maidens in June, nectarine leaving unguent hollows dewed with her nectar.

You have tasted this tart once before, in the midsummer twilight with a young bard. You kissed his eyelids with nectarined lips and murmured tales of princes and imps, of hedgehogs and owls, of a lanthorn and the horned moon. And when he awoke he thought he had but slumbered and all his visions but a dream.

Nectarine Duff


Midsummer Nectarine Duff for Titania


  • ¼ cup vegan butter
  • 1 cup flour
  • 2 teaspoons baking powder
  • ¼ teaspoon salt
  • ½ cup sugar
  • 2/3 cup nondairy milk
  • 4-6 nectarines or peaches (1 ½ lbs), sliced in eighths (Choose the most luscious fruits you can find. I really did taste every peach and nectarine at the farmers’ market.)


Preheat the oven to 375° F. Melt the butter in a 9” round pan. Whisk or sift the dry ingredients together. Gradually add the milk just until dough comes together (you may not need it all). Stir just until streaks disappear. Spoon the batter evenly over the melted butter. Arrange the fruit in fairy rings atop the batter. Bake for 35-45 minutes or until edges are browned and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean or nearly so. Serve warm under the midsummer stars.

Whole Grain Almond Date Scones with Coconut Maple Icing


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Whole grain almond date sconesJust as a pinch of salt coaxes out the flavor of a dish, a dash of a dining companion’s cibophobias give my double portion a singular zest. I swoon over the victuals others scorn. My pleasure in the morsels is doubled knowing that I must make up for the absence of others’ love. Perhaps I am a contrarian. I am a vegan. The ethical, environmental, and spiritual signposts led me here, but perhaps contrarianism made fleet my feet.

A tidbit most mundane becomes quite titillating when stamped “Top Secret.” As I munch my collards, my bok choy, my millet (“Why do all your vegan foods sound like they could be medieval weapons?” asks my brother, the carnivorous varsity linebacker), I smile. I have been initiated into a scrumptious secret and being exclusive just increases its value. Sorry little brother, you can’t play with Okra and me today.

Ask my father to name a food he finds unpalatable. He will claim that he eats everything. But set before him a dish with a smidgeon of coconut and he politely declines. Set before him a plate pebbled with nuts and he demurs. Set before him a sweet sticky with dates and he draws back.

Father flew away to a glamorous hotel to say intellectual things to intellectual people in nametags. I baked almond date scones laced with coconut oil and bathed them in coconut maple icing for good measure. Obviously you should replace the nuts and dates with whatever tidbits are most likely to repulse your comrades.

Whole grain almond date scones

Whole Grain Almond Date Scones with Coconut Maple Icing

Adapted from Adventures in Cooking


  • 2 cups whole-wheat pastry flour (someday I may try blending in some buckwheat flour to drive off a few more picky eaters)
  • 2 tablespoons sugar
  • 1 teaspoon baking powder
  • ½ teaspoon salt
  • ½ cup solid-state coconut oil
  • ¾ cup nondairy milk (I used almond)
  • Generous handful of chopped nuts (I imagined the scones with walnuts but we didn’t have any, so almonds it was)
  • 5-6 dates, chopped
  • 1 cup powdered sugar
  • 1 tablespoon maple syrup
  • 1 teaspoon coconut oil
  • Splash of nondairy milk


Preheat the oven to 375° F. Whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. With a fork or pastry blender, cut in the coconut oil until you have the usual “little peas” of floury fat globs (appetizing, no?). Sprinkle in the nuts and dates (don’t let the date bits stick together), stirring to distribute evenly. Add the milk and stir just until a loose dough forms. Pat the dough onto a baking sheet, forming a disk 1” thick. Slice into eight triangles, and scoot them a little bit apart from one another so that everyone has some breathing room. Bake for 35-45 minutes, or until the scones have filled out a little, looked crisped at the edges, and feel firm to the touch.

In a small bowl, stir together the icing ingredients. Microwave in short bursts, just until the coconut oil is melted and the other ingredients are warm enough to keep the oil from seizing. Stir until smooth, adding more powdered sugar or milk to reach a pourable consistency. Drizzle over the warm scones and let rest until the glossy coat firms up.



Chocolate Covered Pretzel Cookies


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Chocolate pretzel cookies

The mythological history of the chocolate chip cookie needles me. I do not like the idea that this harmonious marriage of sweet and salty, crisp and chewy could have been the serendipitous result of a mistake. Must we attribute this paragon of handheld delight to Mrs. Tollhouse’s lack of foresight in her grocery shopping? I am a perfectionist. I believe in brainstorming, blueprinting, hard work, and perfectionating (term of Mama’s, a fellow perfectionatrix) until the product achieves my standards. Is the kingdom of bakingshire a meritocracy or isn’t it?

Perhaps the chocolate chip cookie came to be through the workings of divine intervention. When I sink my teeth into a cookie, center still molten, I can believe in miracles. This wafer, with its semisweet striations, its crisp golden halo, is the sacramental host of my kitchen communion, consecrated by caramelization and Maillard reaction. A miracle in my mouth. Could Mrs. Tollhouse be next on Francis’s list of canonization candidates? After all, Francis waived the two-miracle requirement for John Paul II. Saint JPII may have remotely cured a nun or two, but just think of all the doldrums and tantrums that Mrs. Tollhouse’s gift to mankind has cured over the decades.

Chocolate Covered Pretzel Cookies are neither accidental nor beatified (though Mama did exclaim “Divine!” when she bit in). They are the product of intelligent design, a calculated attempt to accentuate the crunchy salty elements of the classic chocolate chip cookie.

Chocolate pretzel cookies

Chocolate Covered Pretzel Cookies

12-14 large cookies 


  • ½ cup vegan butter
  • scant ¾ cup brown sugar
  • 1 flax egg: 1 tablespoon ground flax seed mixed with 3 tbsp water
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 1 ¼ cups whole wheat pastry flour (or all purpose flour if you don’t enjoy the slightly grainier chew of whole wheat)
  • ½ teaspoon baking soda
  • ½ teaspoon salt
  • ½ – ¾ cup roughly chopped chocolate covered pretzels


Preheat oven to 350° F. Prepare the flax egg in a small bowl and set aside.

With an electric or stand mixer, beat the Earth Balance until fluffy. Add the brown sugar and beat until pale and creamy (perhaps 1 or 2 minutes…channel the patience of the saints). Beat in the flax egg and vanilla until well integrated.

Beat in (or stir in depending on your machine’s horsepower) the flour, baking soda, and salt, being careful not to over mix. Fold in the chocolate pretzel bits.

Refrigerate the dough, covered, for as long as patience allows. A day is good. Mine waited almost four days, but the amount of dough in the bowl was significantly reduced due to my need to frequently test whether the dough was still edible (it was!).

Use an ice cream scoop to create uniform dough mounds and space evenly on a baking sheet. Let the dough sit for 15-20 minutes. Bake for 9-13 minutes, rotating the pans halfway through. Cookies are finished when they have spread out and are slightly golden around the edges. Let sit on the baking sheet for 5-10 minutes before transferring to a cooling rack.