Oatmeal Snickerdoodles

Halloween approaches and Camila has changed her costume four times. She wanted to be a princess, then a dinosaur, then a princess who rides dinosaurs (which I support in principle but could not execute in craft supplies), and now she wants to be a baker. A baker. My four-year-old daughter wants to dress as me for Halloween. Luis says this is narcissistic. I say this is the greatest compliment I have ever received. We are both right.

I made the costume from an old apron, a child-sized chef's hat that Carmen sewed from white fabric, and a basket of fake conchas that Sofia and I crafted from paper-mâché and paint. Camila put it on and looked in the mirror and said, "I look like Mamá!" and then she added, "But prettier," which is a devastating qualifier from a four-year-old and also probably accurate.

Luis Jr. doesn't want to trick-or-treat anymore. He is fifteen and trick-or-treating is "for babies," which is what all fifteen-year-olds say about everything they secretly still want to do. He said he'd stay home and hand out candy. Luis bought three bags of candy from Walmart and Luis Jr. ate one bag before Halloween, which I discovered when I found the wrappers under his bed, and I did not say anything because some battles are not worth fighting and a fifteen-year-old eating candy in secret is not a crisis — it is a boy being a boy, and boys being boys is the least of my problems.

Isabella is going as Florence Nightingale. She made her own costume — a white cap, a long skirt, an apron — from thrift store clothes she altered herself. She is thirteen and she has designed a historically accurate Halloween costume from secondhand clothes and her own sewing skills, and I thought: she is going to be fine. She is going to be more than fine. She is going to save people.

At the bakery, I've started introducing Rosa's recipes one by one. This week: polvorones de canela — the cinnamon shortbread cookies that crumble when you bite them and coat your mouth in butter and sugar and the warm haze of cinnamon. Rosa made these for every Christmas, and they were the first thing she put on the table and the last thing left on the plate because everyone saved them, rationed them, ate them one at a time instead of by the handful because Rosa's polvorones were too precious to rush. I made them for the bakery and they sold out by 10 AM and three people asked for the recipe and I said, "It's my mother's," and they heard the past tense and they didn't ask again.

I made mole this week. Not Rosa's mole — Rosa didn't make mole, it is a Oaxacan dish and we are Chihuahuan — but my mole, learned from a woman at church named Doña Pilar who moved to El Paso from Puebla and who shared her recipe with me in the way that Mexican women share recipes: standing side by side in the kitchen, tasting, adjusting, arguing about how much chocolate is too much chocolate (there is no such thing as too much chocolate in mole, Doña Pilar said, and she is correct). The mole was rich and dark and complex — thirty ingredients, four hours — and Luis said it was "interesting," which is what Luis says when he doesn't like something but doesn't want to fight, and the children had mixed reviews, and I thought: this is fine. Not every recipe is for everyone. Not every recipe is Rosa's. Some are mine. I am allowed to have my own recipes. I am allowed to make things that don't come from the notebook.

The permission to cook outside Rosa's recipes feels new and dangerous, like walking without a railing. Rosa was the railing. Her recipes were the structure I held onto. But she is gone and the railing is gone and I am standing in the kitchen making mole that is not hers, and my feet are steady, and the mole is good, and the world does not end when Maria Elena Gutierrez makes something that is not from the notebook. The world just gets bigger. One recipe at a time, the world gets bigger.

Rosa’s polvorones sold out before 10 AM, and even after they were gone, the smell of cinnamon and butter stayed in the bakery all day — a kind of ghost I didn’t mind haunting the place. When I make these Oatmeal Snickerdoodles at home, they aren’t Rosa’s recipe, but they live in the same neighborhood: that same warm cinnamon-sugar coating, that same buttery crumble that makes you slow down and eat one at a time. Camila helps me roll them, her little baker’s hands pressing each ball into the cinnamon sugar like she was born knowing how, and I think Rosa would have loved watching that. The world gets bigger one recipe at a time — and this one is ours.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 11 minutes | Total Time: 26 minutes | Servings: 36 cookies

Ingredients

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
For rolling: 1/4 cup granulated sugar + 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

Instructions

Heat the oven. Preheat your oven to 375°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.
Cream the butter and sugars. In a large bowl using a hand mixer or stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the softened butter, granulated sugar, and brown sugar together on medium-high speed for 2–3 minutes until light and fluffy, scraping down the sides as needed.
Add the eggs and vanilla. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Mix in the vanilla extract until fully incorporated.
Mix the dry ingredients. In a separate medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, cream of tartar, salt, and cinnamon. Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture and stir on low speed just until combined — do not overmix.
Fold in the oats. Using a wooden spoon or spatula, fold in the rolled oats until evenly distributed throughout the dough. The dough will be thick.
Make the cinnamon-sugar coating. In a small shallow bowl, stir together the 1/4 cup granulated sugar and 1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon until combined.
Roll and coat. Scoop the dough into 1 1/2-tablespoon balls. Roll each ball between your palms until smooth, then roll generously in the cinnamon-sugar mixture to coat all sides.
Bake. Place the coated dough balls 2 inches apart on the prepared baking sheets. Bake for 10–12 minutes, until the edges are set and the centers look just slightly underdone — they will firm up as they cool. Do not overbake; these are best soft and chewy.
Cool. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 5 days — if they last that long.

Nutrition (per serving)

Oatmeal Snickerdoodles — The Closest Thing to Rosa’s Polvorones I Could Find in My Own Hands