Butterscotch Pecan Cookies

Thanksgiving week. I turned thirty Sunday — December first, technically Sunday, and we celebrated quietly the night before with the same lemon cake Mom always makes, only this one had thirty candles. Patrick lit the candles with Mom's help and I blew them out and Mom took a picture which she will have framed by Christmas, and that was the celebration. Thirty did not feel like a thing. Thirty feels like the next number. I am going to have a baby niece in ten weeks. I am running a ranch. I have a book in print. I am thirty. I do not know what I expected at thirty when I was twenty. Whatever I expected, I have done less and more, in different proportions. The book is a thing I did not expect. The marriage I have not yet had I did expect by now. The world arranges itself. You do not arrange it.

Thanksgiving Day Thursday we did the small dinner with the four of us. Tom Whelan came over because his wife is in Billings memory care and Thanksgiving alone is a thing he will not survive many more years of. So he was the fifth at the table. I cooked the turkey — twelve pounds, brined again, roasted with herb butter under the skin, the gravy from the drippings. Mom did the sides — mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans with bacon and almonds, cranberry sauce from cranberries Cole had brought down for us, and a sweet potato casserole with marshmallows that Patrick has eaten on Thanksgiving every year of his married life and that he loves and that I think is an abomination but I do not say so out loud. Mom made two pies — pumpkin and apple — and Tom brought a pecan pie his neighbor had baked for him. We had three pies for five people, two of whom are old and one of whom is recovering from Parkinson's tremors. We ate well. There were leftovers for a week.

Patrick toasted at the table — with water, not wine — and the toast was: To everyone here, and the ones not. He raised his shaking hand and he held the glass with both hands and he toasted, and Mom's eyes watered, and Tom's eyes watered, and mine watered, and the moment was simple and clean and I will remember the words for the rest of my life. To everyone here, and the ones not. Patrick says four words and means a lifetime, which I have said before and will say again.

Friday I drove to Billings with leftovers for Mrs. Whelan in the memory care unit. Tom asked me to. He said he could not bring himself to do it Friday. I went with him in spirit, with a foil-wrapped plate of turkey and stuffing and sweet potato casserole. Tom stayed home. I went into the unit and the staff knew me — I have been there four times now over the last two years — and they showed me to her room. She did not recognize me, did not know what was on the plate, but she ate three forkfuls of the turkey because the staff helped her. She held my hand for a minute as I left. She said, Tom. I said, Tom is at home, Mrs. Whelan, he is thinking of you. She said, Tom. She closed her eyes. I left. I drove home in the dusk and Tom met me at the gate and asked, How was she. I said, Tom, she is the same. She said your name. He said, Did she. I said, She did. He nodded. He did not cry until he was in his truck driving away. I saw it through his back window. I cried a little in the kitchen with Mom. Some days are like this. Most days are not.

Saturday cookout was the fewest men we have had — five — because the holiday weekend pulled most of the men toward family obligations. We had leftover turkey and a venison stew I had made Friday night from the deer Tom had given me in October. Marcus made seventy-seven days. We sat. We ate. The fire was small. The night was cold. The talk was easy. Marcus said, on his way out, You are thirty. I said, Yeah. He said, You look forty. I said, Thanks. He laughed. He said, You look forty in a good way. The good way of looking forty is, I think, the way you look when you have lived enough that your face starts to match your interior. I will take that. The fire helps. The thirty-candle cake helps. Patrick's toast helps most. To everyone here, and the ones not.

Tom brought a pecan pie his neighbor had baked for him, and that detail has not left me — the way someone who has nothing easy about their life still shows up to a table with something good in hand, something made by someone else on his behalf because people love him even when he cannot love himself enough to ask. When the week settled and the leftovers were gone and I wanted to bake something that felt like that kind of warmth without the weight of a whole pie, I came back to pecans. These butterscotch pecan cookies are smaller than a gesture but they carry the same intention: sweet, a little rich, something to share, something to leave for the people who show up.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 12 min | Total Time: 27 min | Servings: 36 cookies

Ingredients

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 package (11 oz) butterscotch chips
1 cup chopped pecans, toasted

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat oven to 375°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.
Toast the pecans. Spread chopped pecans in a single layer on a dry skillet over medium heat. Stir frequently for 3–4 minutes until fragrant and lightly golden. Remove from heat and let cool.
Cream butter and sugars. In a large bowl, beat softened butter with both sugars on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed.
Add eggs and vanilla. Beat in the eggs one at a time, then mix in the vanilla extract until fully incorporated.
Combine dry ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt. Gradually add the dry mixture to the butter mixture, stirring just until a dough forms. Do not overmix.
Fold in chips and pecans. Using a wooden spoon or spatula, fold in the butterscotch chips and toasted pecans until evenly distributed throughout the dough.
Portion the dough. Drop rounded tablespoons of dough onto the prepared baking sheets, spacing them about 2 inches apart.
Bake. Bake for 10–12 minutes, until the edges are set and lightly golden. The centers may look slightly underdone — that is correct. They will firm up as they cool.
Cool. Let cookies rest on the baking sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to five days.

Nutrition (per serving)

Butterscotch Pecan Cookies — Tom Whelan’s Borrowed Sweetness