She doesn’t lose control of the car so much as gives herself over to it—instead of driving it, it drives her, like she’s a nameless passenger in a nameless cab, too polite to speak up while the driver takes a turn too fast, her knuckles white from gripping the edges of the seat.
She keeps her hands on the wheel, one foot pressing the brake as far down as it will go, the other foot pushed up against the floor, bracing her body for impact.
There’s a tremendous amount of noise as the headlights of the oncoming car grow brighter and closer, driving directly towards her in the wrong lane, and then everything goes quiet for what could be either an eternity or an infinitesimal moment. This is the scene in the movies where the soundtrack switches to an operatic track and the speed cuts from regular to slow motion, the car soaring off the road, the tires lifting into the air, the hood of the car plowing into a 6-foot snowdrift, the car arching forward and then slumping so far to the right that it barely remains upright.
When everything speeds up again, and the sound comes back, it takes her a minute to remember how to breathe and another minute to figure out where they are.
It’s 11:30 PM and the night is ink-black around them. On this rural stretch of land, the two-lane road is dotted by only a few streetlamps, and it’s hard to tell how far the car moved.
The other car—the one that veered into the oncoming traffic and drove directly at them, the one that was going so fast she didn’t have more than a split second to decide whether to hope they’d swerve or swerve herself directly into a black, snowy abyss off the side of the highway—is gone.
She later finds out that the car is, at that very moment, being pulled over one town south, the intoxicated driver handcuffed and taken to the station for reckless driving.
Somehow, she gathers herself and checks on all three friends in her car. The side of the car is so precariously lodged into the snow bank that they all have to climb up and out of the back left-hand side door, unable to open any of the others.
If you have to choose a place to have a car accident, don’t choose just before midnight in February in the far Northeast. The cold is so piercing that they huddle together, stomping their sneaker-clad feet and trying to wrap Lucy’s oversized flannel shirt around two of them at once, since their parkas and scarves are packed somewhere in the trunk of their car, hidden in snow.
After the police car comes and the tow truck comes; after they manage to drive her car, limping along at 15 mph while the ice in the wheel wells makes odd thumping sounds, to their AirBnB; after they discover that the little ski cottage, the one they’d emailed photos of and already claimed rooms inside, has flooded from a burst pipe; after they drive another slow few miles to the closest available hotel room (a Holiday Inn with two twin beds for the four of them); after they’ve taken out three travel-sized bottles of Jim Beam from the mini fridge and shared swigs as they sit in the bathtub holding their bare feet under the hot water to try to thaw their frozen toes; after all of this, they collapse on the polyester duvet covers and finally start to laugh.
She pulls out her phone and jumps up to stand in her socked feet on the foot of the bed, loudly hushing the others so that she can read in a dramatic voice to the room. She scrolls through her email and finds what she’s looking for: the last three texts sent in their group chat before the trip.
Lauren (February 20, 12:55 PM): we’re at the office, I’ll make sure we all leave in time
Her (12:57 PM): haha ok, I don’t want anyone waiting in the cold, you know, in case they DIE
Lauren (12:57 PM): totally. good grief this weather!!!
She’s worried about her car—which is her boyfriend’s and which she’ll have to take to a dealership, an expensive proposition which will ruin their plans to go rent snowshoes and trek across the frozen surface of Lake Champlain, braving the winds to glimpse the Adirondacks to the west and the Green Mountains to the east. They won’t be able to go get tipsy drinking Heady Toppers at The Alchemist brewery or dress up to eat warm Parker House rolls slathered in cultured butter and the braised lamb with chickpea flour frites alongside a bottle of rosé at Hen of the Woods.
Joanna has a bartender friend in Manhattan who hooked them up with his ex-girlfriend who manages a bar called The Archive; Joanna has been sending them texts for a week about which cocktails she wants to try: the Lonely Hearts Club with reposado tequila, yellow pepper, strawberry, and basil or the Delicatessen with gin and turmeric and coconut and honey. They roll our eyes because to them, a cocktail is a cocktail and they still feel a thrillingly novel sense of adulthood when they order a vodka tonic and two of them feel a little anxious—out of place and too young—in fancy bars, but Joanna is bossy in the most warm, infectious way and they always do what she says.
She’s worried about the AirBnB: Will the owner be apologetic, refunding their down payment and effusively sympathetic about the thirty minutes they spent standing at the edge of her steaming, water-logged living room as they tried to contact her at her cousin’s beach house in Key West? Will she charge them anyway, adding one more bill to split on top of the Holiday Inn charge and the tow truck?
She’s afraid to drive home but she can’t stay for more than three days in Vermont: She’s already taken 6 days of vacation this month and the thought of emailing her boss Alan to ask for another, at the last minute, makes her palms sweat.
But fear doesn’t really mean fear, at this age, not for her anyway. She doesn’t know the icy cold sensation—the sinking, leaden nausea—of anything really going wrong (the car accident doesn’t count because they’re fine, fine, just shaken). She will know, and fairly soon, but for now she knows light disappointment and how to turn it into an adventure.
Eight years later, they still talk about the trip—the accident, the botched snowshowing rental, the way they couldn’t stop laughing the following morning in the breakfast room at the Holiday Inn when Lucy tried to see how many miniature Nutella packets she could fit on top of one wan, palm-sized pancake, the way the grey-haired couples in their sensible travel outfits and fold-out Vermont maps looked at them disapprovingly until they quieted down before erupting into the kind of giggling again that only happens when you’re exhausted and giddy and on the knife’s-edge of falling apart.
They talk about the Uber driver—the one who smelled so deeply of marijuana that she could swear it clung to her clothes—that they hired to take them to a dark, sexy tapas restaurant where they ate truffle fries and drank sangria made with a red wine so tannic it made her mouth pucker. They talk about the sleigh ride they took through the powdery drifts of snow at the farm perched on the edge of the icy lake; how the bells on the horses’ collar pealed in silvery tones over the sound of the wind, how they all felt like Samantha in a Christmastime American Girl book.
They talk about the hot cocoa cookies they bought later that day, the ones from the chocolate shop on the cobblestone street next to the L.L. Bean store, which two of them ate straight from the wax paper wrapping while the others ducked in to buy matching shearling-lined boots.
This, she supposes now, is what happens: a collected jumble of what we make of it all. The ruined plans turned into wandering turned into a series of snapshots that she carries with her, cataloged beside all the others.
These cookies are almost like brownies in cookie form with a crackly, shiny top and chewy middle—what makes them a little more special is the addition of marshmallow fluff and a bit of cocoa powder on top of the melted chocolate—because all good hot chocolate has marshmallows.
Hot Chocolate Cookies
340g (12 ounces) dark chocolate, roughly chopped
113g (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, room temperature
3 eggs, room temperature
148g (3/4 cup) granulated sugar
53g (1/4 cup) brown sugar
1/4 cup marshmallow fluff
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon espresso powder (optional but recommended)
90g (3/4 cup) all-purpose flour
21g (1/4 cup) cocoa powder
flaky sea salt for finishing, optional
In a double boiler, or in the microwave, melt together the dark chocolate and butter until smooth. Set aside.
In the bowl of a stand mixer, mix the eggs with both sugars at medium-high speed until very pale and fluffy—mix for at least 5 minutes. This is important! You want to get as much air as you can in the mixture.
Add the fluff and vanilla and beat for another minute or two.
Using a rubber spatula, fold in the melted chocolate mixture until just combined, taking care not to deflate it too much.
Whisk together the salt, espresso powder (if using), flour, and cocoa powder.
Fold in the dry ingredients until just combined and no dry streaks remain.
Chill the batter for about 20 minutes (the longer you chill, the less flat your cookies will be—I personally like mine flatter and chewier but they’re good both ways!).
While your batter chills, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Drop balls of dough onto parchment-lined baking sheets, leaving at least a few inches between each as they spread quite a bit.
Sprinkle with flaky sea salt if you like and bake for about 10 to 12 minutes, or until the tops are just barely set but look shiny and still a tiny bit wet (this is okay—the tops will dry and set into the crackly brownie look as they cool).
Remove from the oven and let cool on the pan until firm enough to transfer to a wire rack.