Marn-Marn's Snowballs and Cresecents
Everyday after school, Peggy Tully’s mom would drop me off at a red brick apartment building nestled in between two other red brick apartment buildings. A little set of sturdy triplets housing the lives of the often insignificant. The woman in the wheelchair. The boy who couldn’t hear. A suddenly childless couple. The radiator’s hiss, the soundtrack to their lives. I would climb out of the blue station wagon, my plaid uniform skirt sticking to the back of my legs, and run as fast as I could across 14th avenue determined not to be weighed down by the weight of my backpack, not to fall, not to be hit by a bus.
Crashing into the glass door, I smashed the button for apartment 1C. As I walked down the hall, the soothing voice of Bob Ross danced into the hallway. Marn-Marn or Marnie, my mom’s aunt, lived there with her husband Artie. The apartment only had two bedrooms, but at one point in its life it housed them and four children. Growing up in Queens, I learned that you don’t need a lot of space to live. You master the art of your own bubble, a sanctuary in the midst of surrounding chaos. Everyday after school I would sit at Marnie’s dining room table to do homework.
In my memory, she is sitting on my right and my great- grandmother, another Dorothy, is sitting on my left. They are drinking scotch on the rocks. Maybe it is three pm. Maybe it is later. Time didn’t matter to them. I can hear their voices talking about people I know, but only in the vague way that children know adults not in their immediate circle. The mother and daughter don’t seem to care about creating an atmosphere conducive for learning. They are not trying to lower their voices or move to the living room so I can focus on my work.
Years later, I realize that this moment is such a part of who I am that I re-create it with my own mother who comes over for dinner one day a week. My daughter sits at the coffee table doing her homework while my mother and I give each other reports on the day. We are like the other women in our family, only we drink tea instead of whisky, a sensible choice for parents and those who need to drive. My daughter comes from a quieter life tradition. We live in the suburban south and she is not always used to loud people. An only child of divorced parents, with a step-brother who mostly stays in his room, she has never had to share her space. These weekly visits by my mother are like downing shots of Queens.
I never remember Marn-Marn being able to walk easily by herself. She always had a cane, then a walker, then a wheelchair. Her body slowly shut down by multiple sclerosis. I remember her moving around the apartment as if playing a game of hot lava. Like a toddler learning to walk, she used what was around her to assist her steps, until one day she couldn’t.
When I was little and had a half day from school, I would arrive in time for lunch. Despite her physical limitations, she always made me something. Peanut Butter and Jelly. Tuna. Grilled Cheese. Always on a toasted english muffin. Afterwards, there would be sweet treats. A package of Pecan Sandies or an Enteman’s Crumb Cake, both favorites of Uncle Artie’s. But at Christmas time, anything store bought was replaced by blue butter cookie tins filled with homemade cookies. Specifically snowballs and crescents. Magically, they never seemed to run out.
When I was little I never looked forward to these cookies. To be sure, I ate them, but they didn’t seem spectacular enough. Perhaps it was just that they lacked chocolate. I never wanted to waste my cookie allotment on something that seemed so boring. It seemed to be a poor choice. However, as an adult I realized that these cookies hold universes of wonder. One bite now and I am once again sitting in Marn-Marn’s too hot apartment while Uncle Artie sits in his recliner humming Frank Sinatra.
Recently, similar recipes to these two cookies have popped up on sites and in books I’ve perused and I can only imagine it’s because the authors feel that same sense of nostalgia. It has been a difficult two or so years in our world and I think we’re all looking for comfort. There are few things more comforting than recipes given and gifted by those before us. We take the acts of love they made in their own kitchens and reimagine them in our own ways, never letting their love or their light die out.
Snowballs
1 cup butter
½ cup confectioner’s sugar
1 tsp vanilla
2 ¼ cups sifted flour
½ tsp salt
¾ cup chopped nuts
Heat oven to 400F
Cream butter, sugar & vanilla.
Stir in flour and salt.
Add nuts.
Roll into balls.
Bake on ungreased cookie sheet for 14-17 minutes*.
Cool and roll in more confectioner’s sugar.
Crescents
1 cup butter
½ cup confectioner’s sugar
2 tsp vanilla
1 cup rolled oats
2 cups sifted flour
½ tso salt
Heat oven to 325
Blend butter, sugar & vanilla.
Fold in oats, flour and salt.
Shape into crescents
Bake on parchment paper 25 to 30 minutes.
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