Homemade Oreo Cookies
Recipe follows story
My childhood obsession with Oreo cookies led me down the path to making them from scratch. Suffice to say, my make everything from scratch mother did not grace our kitchen cupboards with any junk food. Oreo’s would qualify as junk food to Evelyn Grace.
I qualified them as DELICIOUS.
But I had friends whose parents did harbor junk, and I thank them greatly - to this day - for filling my belly with preservative laden bounty.
Jennifer Schroder was my childhood best friend. Pretty, long blond hair, perfectly thin and petite. She was the pretty tiny one, and I was her big best friend. That’s just the way it goes when growing up, right? One friend always has to be unattractive. I was 7, I was unattractive. As unattractive as a chubby kid wearing stirrup stretch pants, NKOTB t-shirts and puff paint jean jackets could be. Then, when you’re older it’s all about The Truth About Cats & Dogs. One friend is the Janeane Garofolo, one is the Uma. Except, in the end, Janeane meets a hot Frenchman and my hot Frenchman has yet to arrive. Instead, I bake. I think. I remember. I get lost in nostalgia. I play nice with my discontent. I reminisce about one of my purest loves, the Oreo cookie.
I have Jennifer’s mom and dad to thank for my Oreo obsession, among many other positive childhood events - like vacationing in the Poconos, my first fishing trip, my first sleigh ride, summer camp, a place to sleep when my mom and dad pulled late nights at the hospital with Thomas. I had Joyce to thank for pretty, long, well kept hair. When I spent time at home, my grandma would do my hair - and I left the house looking more like a smallish immigrant child with no command of the English language, rather than a born and bred Brooklyn girl with a hefty lisp. Mismatched ribbons, lopsided pig-tails, and too tight corduroy dresses with knee high socks binding my 7 year old calf fat informed my daily look, but not when I was at Jennifer’s house. Joyce could style and do hair - which lessened my likelihood to get herbed at school.
Herbed: getting made fun of, picked on, harassed because of one’s misfortunate look and timid demeanor.
I always thought of Jennifer’s house (or, rather, houses - the one in the Pocono’s was theirs) as the ultimate escape. They were happy times. Jennifer and I formed the Unicorn Club, we had a cardboard club house, Joyce bought us a button maker and we made it official. We were the only two members of this club, so it was our little secret society. A little secret society that had an office on the front porch of the prettiest house on 93rd St. and Foster Avenue. In our office we made many buttons with different neon colored unicorn stickers and, being the only two members came with a certain level of privilege, as this meant we were able to make many button changes throughout the day. In our box we ate Oreos - Oreos we did not have to share - until we were called in for dinner time. The Schroeder’s had 6 aluminum snack trays to choose from, as we always ate dinner in their giant living room. Jennifer and I planted ourselves on the brown shag carpeting, in front of the tv and enjoyed movies like Jaws. Yes, we watched Jaws during dinner at age 7 because we had older brothers. My brother Lou was best friends with her brother Michael, and the four of us would eat together, in the living room, while Joyce, Fred and Mable - Jennifer’s grandma - ate in the kitchen. They weren’t the greatest cooks, so I went light with my eating - especially on the nights when pasta and jarred sauce were served. But they loved me, they loved me in a way I needed to be loved. Who cared about dinner, I always knew there would be Oreo dessert to lean on.
A black and white checkered ceramic cookie jar sat on their kitchen counter to the left of the sink. That jar was my own personal pot of gold.
I loved every Oreo I ate - be it after school, in our office or after dinner. I was a child. I smiled. I jumped rope. I wrote a poem, in my mind, for every one consumed. When my mouth and belly were met by an Oreo, I was saved.
