As I wrote about books here the other day, I remembered a passage from this novel, wherein a mother is reassuring her daughter about her worries over her upcoming wedding, pointing out that her preoccupations with seating charts and china patterns aren’t important. But not because those things aren’t as big as family and love and health. Small things do matter—the right kind of small things.
As she puts it: “Family is not the only thing that matters. There are other things: Pachelbel’s Canon in D matters, and fresh-picked corn on the cob, and true friends, and the sound of the ocean, and the poems of William Carlos Williams, and the constellations in the sky, and random acts of kindness, and a garden on the day when all its flowers are at their peak. Fluffy pancakes matter and crisp clean sheets and the guitar riff in “Layla,” and the way clouds look when you are above them in an airplane. Preserving the coral reef matters, and the thirty-four paintings of Johannes Vermeer matter, and kissing matters.”
What would you add? I’d add the following.
The smell of tomato vines matters, and warm homemade applesauce doused in cold cream matters, and the third stanza of Dylan Thomas’ “Fern Hill” matters, and Euclid’s second theorem matters. October in Vermont and cold champagne and the opening scene of the movie Love Story. Van Morrison singing Tupelo Honey matters, and framed nautical charts of the coast of Maine matter, and the crunchy end of a baguette matters. Peonies in bloom and the village of Sconset in Nantucket and a perfectly faded pair of jeans.
Finishing the Sunday crossword and very good felt-tipped pens and holding hands. The smell of garlic cooking in oil matters, as do the smells of Chanel Eau Fraiche and Old Spice deodorant and fresh mint and bread baking. Thick flannel shirts matter and Patagonia baggie shorts matter and hiking the 48 high peaks of the Adirondacks matters.
Handwriting and fireflies at dusk and creamy hollandaise sauce. Morning suits matter and melted butter on popcorn matters and the island of Tortola matters and trains rumbling over the Scottish countryside matter. The Spanish word for longing and the French word for thunderstorm and the Italian word for tarragon.
Flossing matters and all 730 pages of Ulysses matter and Benjamin Moore paint in “Palladian Blue” matters. The hush in a dark theater before a movie starts matters and swimming at nighttime matters and Staub dutch ovens in glossy royal blue enamel matter. White cable knit sweaters and watercolor wedding invitations and the soft skin of a baby’s ankle and dark chocolate cookies warm from the oven.
I wish that at least a handful of these (or of your own list) make an appearance in your day (or week or month). Luckily a few are firmly in your control; take, for example, that last one.
If you get started right away, you can have a batch of gooey dark chocolate cookies today. You’ll also have the added bonus of cookie dough for sneaking tastes (I know, I know, don’t eat it and all that) and the thrill of discovering a new recipe, because these aren’t average cookies—they’re kind of superlative. Seriously. They’re made with rye flour and three kinds of chocolate and they’re so good that it’s worth buying rye flour just to make them (I get mine from either King Arthur or Maine Grains).
If anything convinces you to make these, it should be be the seriousness in m y husband’s voice when he turned to me after his first bite and says: “kiddo, these might actually be the best cookies you’ve ever made".
The best cookies. (In case it wasn’t clear, I have made a lot of cookies over the years.)
So, there you have it. Make these. When pressed, he explained that they’re so good because they’re intensely chocolate-y without being overly rich. Their charm doesn’t come from an excess of butter or sugar or flour—in fact, they only use a bit of rye flour, and no all-purpose flour at all—but rather a very deep and satisfying flavor and a nicely chewy texture. There’s some sugar, but not much, and it’s there to merely temper the dark chocolate (two kinds: melted and in chunks) and the cocoa powder.
Oh! And you don’t have to remember to soften butter in advance for these, which is a real win in my book.
A little sea salt goes on top, and some chopped pecans are stirred into the dough. They’re pretty exceptional, and we can all use a little of that these days.
Dark Chocolate Rye Cookies
Inspired by Caroline Schiff! Makes 18 medium cookies
1 1/2 cups (255g) chopped dark chocolate or dark chocolate chunks, divided
1/2 cup (113g) unsalted butter
1 1/3 cups (140g) rye flour
1/2 cup (57g) cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup (100g) chopped pecans
2 eggs
1 1/3 cup (247g) granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
flaky sea salt, for sprinkling
In a double boiler or in the microwave, melt together 3/4 cup of the dark chocolate with the butter—stirring until smooth. Set aside.
Whisk together the rye flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt.
In the bowl of a stand mixer (or by hand), beat the eggs with the sugar for 2 to 3 minutes. Add the melted chocolate/butter mixture and the vanilla and beat well.
Add the dry ingredients and mix until just combined, then fold in the pecans and remaining chocolate with a rubber spatula.
Chill the dough for at least 4 hours (you can bake it immediately but I prefer the flavor after a rest—you can chill it for up to 3 days even).
When you’re ready to bake, remove the dough from the fridge and let it come to room temperature while you preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. The dough is a bit hard to scoop when it’s chilled, so it’ll be easier as it warms up slightly.
Scoop out large balls of dough (I use an ice cream scoop for this) and place them a few inches apart on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Sprinkle with flaky sea salt.
Bake for about 15 minutes, or until set on the edges but still soft in the center. (The less time you bake them, the chewier and softer they’ll be once cooled.)
Remove from the oven and let cool for 10 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to finish cooling.