Today, we’re going to make classic chocolate chip cookies with my own personal twist … toffee!
This little trick will work with any cookie recipe you already love (after all, that perfect texture of cookie is an individual preference) … all you have to do is add a bag of Heath Bits ‘O Brickle English Toffee Bits at the end, usually instead of the nuts. I’m a big fan of nuts, but I leave them out if I put in the toffee because it’s just too much. Each bite becomes a competition of flavors instead of a celebration of flavors. And, as an added bonus, leaving out the nuts makes this little batch of cookies safe to send to school with your kids.
Now, let’s get to cooking! Here are the ingredients I use
• 1 cup unsalted butter, softened
• 1 cup white sugar
• 1 cup packed brown sugar
• 2 eggs
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 cups Ghirardelli milk (or semi-sweet) chocolate chips
• 1 bag Heath Bits ‘o Brickle English Toffee Bits
First, you cream the butter and sugars. Actually, first you smack yourself in the forehead for forgetting to soften the butter on the counter for at least an hour, consider whether or not you want to wait that long and maybe do, or maybe put the butter in the microwave on low power for a few seconds.
Second, cream the butter and sugars. I use my Kitchen Aid.
Third, add the eggs and vanilla.
Fourth … you either follow the recipe correctly and mix all the dry ingredients in a separate bowl which you then have to find room for in the dishwasher OR you do my little cheat. I just add the salt and baking soda to the wet ingredients and let them mix for a while longer. I do the same thing with cakes and muffins and really anything that says to dirty a bowl with a bunch of dry ingredients. And I’m sure there’s a pastry chef out their gnashing their teeth at me … that’s fair … but I’ve never been able to tell the difference.
Fifth, you add the flour (or flour mixture) to the wet ingredients, s l o w l y and on low speed, with that plastic shield to keep the flour from getting everywhere. Mix until combined. You don’t want to see any bits of flour, but you don’t want to overmix, either. And this time, I can tell the difference. Overmixed cookies get tough. (it’s got to do with developing too much gluten and a chemist could explain it better, but take my word for it … or Google it.)
Sixth, add the chocolate and toffee chips and stir to combine. You might even remove the bowl from the Kitchen Aid and work them in by hand to keep from overmixing.
Quick note on the chocolate: I’m a big sweetie, so I go for the milk chocolate, but semi-sweet is also fine. What isn’t fine is low-quality chocolate. Certain classic chocolate chips we all grew up with contain such subpar chocolate that the chips don’t melt properly in the oven! In fact, the quality of the chocolate chips is probably the single most important part of the recipe, bar none. Most other things are negotiable.
Seventh, place rounded tablespoons of cookie dough onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and try not to lick your fingers too much. (Or you know, wash them after you do.) Don’t overcrowd.
Finally, bake the cookies for about ten minutes. If you want soft, chewy cookies, take them out when they’re starting to brown on bottom (I will check by lifting one with a spatula). They won’t be fully cooked yet, but they cook a bit more on the counter, so if they look done in the oven, they will be crispier cookies (which might be your preference). Either way, let them sit on the cookie sheet until they’re firm enough to transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. I used to use paper towels, but I got sick of eating tiny paper towel bits in my cookies, so finally invested in quality wire racks!
Enjoy the cookies while you read Knot of Souls!
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Excerpt Chapter 1
Joy
The first thing I realized, after I died, was that my body could walk and talk and no longer needed my help for any of it. I was in there, able to look through my eyes and hear through my ears, but even the simple task of aiming my gaze had slipped outside my control. I was a passenger inside my own mind, an observer along for the ride.
Kristen had been right, I thought numbly as I struggled to make sense of my new reality. Had it only been lunchtime today when she’d told me I’d never get ahead if I didn’t learn to assert myself? “Take control of your life,” she’d said, “or others will take it for you.”
She couldn’t have been thinking of anything quite so literal. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn’t because I’d failed to advocate for a promotion at work or refused to ask out a coworker.
Right?
My body reached my car and slid behind the wheel. A rattled thought—not my own—cursed as it tried to understand how the contraption worked. How much can cars have changed in only a century? Visions accompanied the thoughts, memories—again not my own—of a classic car, gleaming black and elegant, its top down, my bobbed hair whipping around my face as I laughed with glee, a white-faced young man at my side gripping the door, begging me to slow down. I did not.
Which brings me to the second thing I realized, after I died: I was no longer alone inside my own mind.
Whoever was in there didn’t seem to have noticed me yet. Fine. I slid into the smallest corner of my brain I could find, ignoring the intruder as they struggled to figure out how to work an automatic transmission. Maybe they’d get frustrated and give up and go find someone else’s body to possess.
Holy shit! I’ve been possessed by the ghost of someone who died in like 1930.
But why?
I tried to remember what had happened, but the images danced just out of reach. I recalled that the night had been unseasonably cold for October, the chill biting through my inadequate jacket as I hurried to my car, parked in a garage two blocks away from the shelter where I’d been volunteering. Hugging my arms around my torso for warmth, I took a shortcut through an alley and …
There was a noise. I’d startled, my heart pounding in my throat, already on edge because of the argument.
Wait. Back up. There’d been an argument. That seemed significant, but my scattered thoughts couldn’t piece it together as yet, not when a bodily intruder fumbled at the gearshift of my two-month-old Hyundai Accent with only fifty-eight “low monthly payments” left to go.
Low is such a relative word.
My beautiful new, inexpensive (also relative) car jerked suddenly backwards out of its parking spot as the voice in my head grew angrier and more frustrated and … afraid. I saw flashes, images I didn’t understand of multi-colored ghosts who seemed to be singing. The more they sang, the more desperate I felt as fear, my own and somehow not my own, made it hard to breathe.
We streaked across the nearly empty parking lot in reverse, almost colliding with the only other vehicle in the place—a red SUV with scratched paint and a dented front bumper suggesting it regularly attracted unwanted attention from other cars. I tried to scream, but didn’t have control of my voice. I tried to hit the brakes, but instead the possessing spirit shifted from reverse to drive without stopping. The grinding of gears made me want to weep, but we came to a stop, breathing heavily, muscles tensed as if in expectation of attack.
They destroyed her. They tore her apart.
I had no time to wonder what any of that meant before the thing possessing my body channeled its anger and grief into a force I’d never experienced or even known existed. One second, the battered red SUV was parked inches from my back bumper, the next, it flew through the air, smashing against a far wall, its frame crumpling like an accordion.
I tried to make myself even smaller, a nearly impossible feat, but I couldn’t let it know I was in here. If it could do that to an SUV, I didn’t want to think about what it might be able to do to me.
Now what?
For one, panic-filled moment, I thought I’d asked the question. Then I realized I wasn’t the only one trying to figure things out.
My car rolled forward again, its speed uneven, first too fast and then—I slammed on the brakes. Well, maybe I didn’t do it, maybe the thing inside me had the same idea as me, but the car skidded to a halt so it just kissed a large concrete pillar. At least it’s just the paint, I tried to tell myself, but rage welled up within me and my fist slammed into the center of the steering wheel, eliciting an angry honk.
An ominous crack formed in the concrete pillar, more evidence, in case I needed it, that the thing invading my body had powers beyond belief. Then came more rattled thoughts that were definitely not my own:
Who thought it was a good idea to build obstacle courses in the sky? Is there not enough room on the ground? Too damn many humans …
Once again, I drew away from the voice in my head. If I hadn’t lost all connection to my body, I’d be trembling, but even so, I felt the sort of cold that seeps through to the soul.
The third thing I realized, after I died, was that the thing possessing me wasn’t a ghost. Or at least, not the ghost of a human.
My car backed away from the concrete column and maneuvered around it to continue the winding path down … down … down to the exit.
Where was my body going and why? More importantly, what would happen if I made myself known and asked?
I reeled at the thought, mentally slinking all the way back to the homeless shelter where I’d been volunteering in the hours before my death. I’d had a crappy day and needed to channel that into a sharp reminder that plenty of people had it much, much worse. Their circumstances, their personalities, their trials and tribulations didn’t fit neatly in the lock box some tried to label and forget, but all of them struggled in some way. They needed help, and sometimes I needed to be needed; it helped me feel less alone.
Tonight, though … tonight there’d been a problem. I remembered having a nice chat with one of the regulars, Roger, big-hearted and with a certain excited energy about him. He’d found a job and was working hard to get back on his feet, but he still couldn’t find a place to rent after being evicted from his old apartment. Now, he lived in his car except when the nights grew too cold, and he was always there to lend a helping hand or just to listen. He had a way of getting people to open up, even me.
He’s the one who jumped in when Thomas started getting belligerent, ranting and raving about false witnesses and evil spirits. The whole thing was so sudden and confusing, I’m not even sure how it happened. One second I’m chatting with Roger about the crappy end to a crappy day—accidentally seeing porn on a coworker’s computer—the next Thomas is in my face, grabbing a fistful of my shirt as he accused me of being a liar, of being in league with the demon spirits, demanding I admit that I could see them too. I was off balance;, I don’t know what I said, I only know what I felt. There was a moment when I looked into his eyes and saw fear and desperation reflected back at me. Then he was being dragged away, thrown out of the shelter …
But he hadn’t been the one to sneak up behind me and kill me. I thought he was, at first. When I heard the noise in the alley, I jumped and looked around, sure it would be Thomas. But it was someone else.
No, not someone else, something else. The thing possessing me wasn’t the first nonhuman I’d encountered tonight. That honor belonged to a blur, a shadow, a … the only way I could think to describe it was as if a small child had found a gray crayon and colored over an otherwise human shape.
I knew I’d died. The bright light I’d only heard about—never believed in—had beckoned and I’d known it was over. Dead in a cold alley; would anyone notice before morning? Who would even mourn me? I had few friends and fewer attachments. No husband or kids, not even a boyfriend. My cat would probably find someone else to feed her. Some might say that was a blessing, not to leave anyone behind, but all I saw was lost potential. If only … the words that would follow me into my lonely grave.
Where had the light gone? I’d seen it, I’d hesitated, I’d wondered if there really was a god after all, and then …
… my body was walking and talking and thinking and acting and I was along for the ride.
My beautiful blue car, none the worse for wear, exited the garage without running into anything else and turned onto the empty city street. Fewer cars might mean lower odds of getting into another accident, although it was clear the thing in my body had little experience driving. It swerved left and right, unable to center itself in the lane, and braked suddenly at a flashing yellow stoplight, which bent backwards in reaction.
That’s when I reached the final—and belated—realization of the most bizarre night of my life. (Afterlife?) If I didn’t take over the driving of this vehicle, I’d die. Again.
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