Roquettes in the Kitchen

Nick remembered a wine-dipped sugar-crusted cookie from his childhood Christmases at Grandma's, and wanted to learn how to make them. So Grandma brought Abuelita's recipe for Spanish roquettes, which of course, varies from sister to sister even though it's their mother's recipe. Aunt Rita makes it one way, Aunt Nonnie another, all the others have their own version and even some cousins too, but Grandma told Nick her recipe is the best. And there it was, handwritten on the back of a Christmas card, with lines and arrows, scratched out words and missing steps.  Jeff was adamant that he and Nick make the dough and form, bake, dip and roll the roquettes on their own, with his mother watching and advising from outside the boundaries of the kitchen. There was plenty of chatter back and forth as Jeff and Nick tried to make sense of the steps and dough ingredients, which included both anisette and moscato wine. The final step was dipping the baked cookies in more moscato, then rolling in sugar. Sooo how many of these did Nick eat as a kid? 

When the bowls were washed and the cookies set out to dry, Jeff spend more hours rewriting the recipe longhand while it was fresh in his mind, then typing it out in a slightly longer, better organized more detailed version that would make the roquettes easier to make but not as much fun.

Mixing the dough

Testing

Rolling

Tasting

Sugared roquettes 

Fresh of the oven

That one little card turned into three legal size hand-written sheets 

For all the world to see 

La Jolla

December 7, in La Jolla for a wedding on the beach

Of all the places I vacationed as a child, La Jolla was the most magical.

Never mind that they rolled up the streets before 8 pm back then. Better to wake up in the early morning mist and rush down to the cove before the sun peaked through the fog and the day officially began. To have an hour or so to savor the beauty, to feel the solitude and oneness with nature.  

All these years later, I can close my eyes and smell the salty air, hear the rhythmic pounding of the surf and remember the quickening of my heart as I headed alone toward the ocean, feeling much like John Masefield in Sea Fever:

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied

So much has changed in La Jolla, and then not so much.

The main streets are lined with upscale boutiques and restaurants, but the hotel where we stayed is perched at the top of the street leading down to the cove. The balconies and awnings are "new" as I'm sure much of the inside is, but from a distance the rooftop patio looks like the same place we spent chilly evenings with the owners and our friends from Phoenix who knew them.