White Chocolate Raspberry Thumbprints

I read Paul's books in the evening. The shipwreck books, of course. The same chapters I have read forty times now. The repetition is the comfort. I am not reading for new information. I am reading because the act of opening Paul's books and turning Paul's pages is a form of sitting in the room with him. He is not in the room. The book was in his hand. The book is in my hand. The hands are connected through the book. Peter called from Chicago. He sounded thinner than last week. He said work was fine. I do not believe him. He said his apartment was fine. I do not believe him either. He asked about the dog. He asked about the lake. He told me he loved me. I told him I loved him too. I told him about the bread I was baking. He said he could almost smell it through the phone. We hung up. I stood at the sink for a long minute. I did not know what else to do. Sophie texted a photo of Mira eating cereal. Mira's face was covered in milk. The photo was lit from the side by morning light and the smile in it was uninhibited and full and I could not stop looking at it. I printed the photo. I taped it to the fridge. I have a system on the fridge now: a column for each grandchild, a column for each great-grandchild, photos rotated weekly. The fridge is the gallery. The gallery is the proof. Thanksgiving is approaching. The brining starts on Tuesday. The pies start on Wednesday. The kitchen begins its annual reorganization for the bird — turkey out of the freezer to the cooler in the garage, fridge cleared for the brine cooler, the big roasting pan brought up from the basement, the carving knife sharpened, the gravy boat located (last seen on the top shelf of the pantry, where it lives all year except this one week). The kids are all coming. The house is going to be full. I am ready. I cooked Pepparkakor this week. Three dozen, then six, then nine. The Christmas tin fills. Damiano. The kitchen back-room I have known for over twenty years. The pot. The ladle. The faces. Gerald. The work continues. The work is the same work it has been since 2005. The continuity is, I think, the gift the Damiano Center gives me as much as the gift I give it. We hold each other up. Erik's house is empty now. The Fifth Street house has been sold (the new owners are a young couple from Hermantown, they are kind, they have promised to take care of it; they will paint the walls and tear up the carpet and the kitchen will become someone else's kitchen and I have made my peace with this, mostly). Erik's own house in Lakeside is being cleared out. I helped on Saturday. I packed Erik's coffee mugs. I held one for a long minute. I put it in the box. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. It is enough.

The Pepparkakor went into the tin first, as they always do — three dozen, then six, then nine, the smell of cardamom and clove filling the kitchen the way it has filled every kitchen I have ever stood in at this time of year. But the tin is large, and the holidays are long, and there is always room for more than one kind of sweetness. These White Chocolate Raspberry Thumbprints came next: simple enough to make while the radio is on low, unhurried enough to let your hands do the thinking. I pressed each one with my thumb and filled it with jam and I did not let myself think too hard about why that small, repetitive gesture felt like exactly the right thing to do this week.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 12 min | Total Time: 1 hr (includes chilling) | Servings: 36 cookies

Ingredients

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup seedless raspberry jam
6 oz white chocolate, finely chopped (or white chocolate chips)
1 tsp neutral oil (such as vegetable or refined coconut)

Instructions

Make the dough. In a large bowl, beat softened butter and sugar together on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the egg and vanilla and beat until well combined. Reduce speed to low and gradually mix in the flour and salt until a soft dough forms.
Chill. Shape the dough into a disc, wrap tightly in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. The dough should be firm enough to roll without sticking.
Preheat and shape. Heat oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Roll chilled dough into 1-inch balls and space them about 1 1/2 inches apart on the prepared sheets. Press your thumb firmly into the center of each ball to create a well — press deep enough to hold the jam but not so deep the dough splits at the edges.
Fill with jam. Spoon approximately 1/2 teaspoon raspberry jam into each well. Do not overfill or the jam will bubble over and caramelize unevenly on the pan.
Bake. Bake 11 to 13 minutes, until the edges are just set and very lightly golden. The centers will look slightly underdone — that is correct. Let cookies rest on the pan for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.
Melt the white chocolate. Combine chopped white chocolate and oil in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave in 30-second intervals, stirring between each, until fully melted and smooth. Work carefully — white chocolate scorches easily.
Drizzle and set. Using a spoon or a piping bag, drizzle the melted white chocolate over the cooled cookies in thin zigzag lines. Allow to set at room temperature for 20 minutes, or refrigerate for 10 minutes to set quickly. Store in an airtight tin at room temperature for up to one week.

Nutrition (per serving)

White Chocolate Raspberry Thumbprints — The Christmas Tin Fills