By December. Twenty-four weeks pregnant, which means viable—the clinical threshold, the place on the timeline where the math shifts in a way that matters. I know what viable means from both sides of the bed now and I try not to think about it too systematically. But I noted it on the calendar anyway, as I noted it with Liam: Monday, week 24, viable. Small private acknowledgment. Then I made coffee and got Liam dressed and went to work.
The Christmas lights went up on Saturday. This year I did the high ones and let Liam do the low ones, which he approached with more enthusiasm than precision but with genuine intention: he hung each light with the concentration of someone who understands what light means, which I think he does, actually, because every year the lights go up and every year the room goes warm. He's two years old in three months. He knows things.
December on the floor has the same particular quality it always has. The patients who are spending Christmas in oncology do the math you don't want to do for them. I bring good food—cookies, small things—and I make rounds the way I always make rounds and I remember their names and I sit a little longer when there's time. The grief of the floor in December is the grief of the floor every month; it just has a soundtrack.
Made the shortbread on Sunday—my mother's recipe, the one with the orange zest—and the apartment smelled like what Christmas should smell like and Liam put his face very close to the cookies while they were cooling and breathed in. "Good," he said. "Good, Mama."
The shortbread was my mother’s, and I’ll keep that one close — but when I bring cookies to the floor, I reach for these almond thumbprints, because they travel well and they look like something someone made on purpose, which matters when you’re handing food to people who are spending Christmas somewhere they didn’t plan to be. They’re small the way good things are small: concentrated, intentional, enough. Liam has already claimed first taste rights for the next batch, and I am not negotiating.
Almond Thumbprint Cookies
Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 12 min | Total Time: 32 min | Servings: 36 cookies
Ingredients
- 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
- 2/3 cup granulated sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon almond extract
- 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 2 cups all-purpose flour
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 cup sliced almonds, finely chopped
- 1/2 cup raspberry or apricot jam (or filling of choice)
- 1/4 cup powdered sugar, for dusting (optional)
Instructions
- Cream the butter. Beat softened butter and granulated sugar together in a large bowl until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Mix in almond extract and vanilla extract.
- Add dry ingredients. Stir in flour and salt until a soft dough forms. If the dough feels too sticky, refrigerate for 15 minutes before rolling.
- Preheat and prep. Heat oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
- Shape the cookies. Roll dough into 1-inch balls. Roll each ball in the chopped almonds to coat, then place 2 inches apart on prepared baking sheets.
- Make the thumbprint. Press a deep well into the center of each ball using your thumb or the back of a 1/2-teaspoon measure.
- Fill and bake. Spoon about 1/2 teaspoon jam into each well. Bake 11—13 minutes, until the edges are just set and the bottoms are lightly golden. The centers will look slightly underdone — that’s right.
- Cool and finish. Let cookies cool on the pan for 5 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack. Dust lightly with powdered sugar once fully cooled, if desired.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 102 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 12g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 18mg