Chocolate Caramel Kiss Cookies

Halloween. Clay stayed home. No party, no costume, no interest. He watched a movie on the couch and ate candy from the bowl that Connie put out for trick-or-treaters who didn't come. At nine o'clock he went to bed. Nine o'clock on Halloween. My son, who last year was in Afghanistan and the year before was at a senior party, is now going to bed at nine on Halloween like a man three times his age.

I don't push. I don't push because Earl didn't push and because pushing Clay is like pushing a mountain — it doesn't move, it just makes you tired. I let him go to bed at nine. I let him eat candy from the untouched bowl. I let him be where he is because where he is is not where he'll stay, and the VA and Dr. Chen and the medications (he's on something — he didn't tell me what and I didn't ask because medications are private and I respect the privacy even though the father in me wants to read every label) are doing their work and the work takes time and time is what I have.

I made caramel apples again. Same as last year. The real caramel, the homemade kind, the sugar-turned-amber-turned-molten-poured-over-tart-apples kind. I made them because Halloween demands caramel apples and because last year I wrote about caramel as transformation — sugar changed by heat into something it can't change back from — and this year the metaphor is still true but softer. Gentler. Last year the transformation was about Clay going to war. This year it's about Clay coming back from war. The sugar is still transformed. The caramel is still irreversible. But the apple underneath is still an apple. Tart, solid, holding its shape. The caramel is what happened to Clay. The apple is Clay. He's still there under the caramel. I can see him. I can taste him. He's still an apple.

I left a caramel apple on Clay's nightstand. He ate it in the morning. He didn't say thank you. He didn't need to. The eaten apple said it.

I always make the caramel apples, and I always will. But this year, after I left one on Clay’s nightstand and watched it disappear by morning without a word, I wanted something I could make in bigger batches—something I could leave out on the counter and not say a thing about, something with that same caramel pull but soft enough to pick up without thinking about it. These cookies are what I made the next day. Caramel in a different shape. Still irreversible. Still sweet.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 12 min | Total Time: 32 min | Servings: 36 cookies

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup granulated sugar, plus more for rolling
1/3 cup packed light brown sugar
1 large egg
2 tablespoons whole milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
36 caramel-filled chocolate kiss candies, unwrapped

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
Whisk dry ingredients. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.
Cream butter and sugars. In a large bowl, beat the softened butter with the granulated sugar and brown sugar on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 2–3 minutes.
Add wet ingredients. Beat in the egg, milk, and vanilla extract until fully combined.
Combine. Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture and stir until a soft dough forms. If the dough feels sticky, refrigerate for 10 minutes.
Roll in sugar. Scoop the dough into 1-inch balls. Roll each ball in granulated sugar to coat, then place 2 inches apart on the prepared baking sheets.
Bake. Bake for 10–12 minutes, until the tops are set and the edges are just firm. Do not overbake—they will look slightly underdone in the center.
Press in the kisses. Remove the cookies from the oven and immediately press one caramel kiss candy firmly into the center of each cookie. The cookie will crack slightly around the edges—that’s how it should look. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool completely before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chocolate Caramel Kiss Cookies — The Caramel That Changed, and the Apple That Didn’t