Piparkūkas

My heritage is Latvian. It's nice that Latvia is finally its own little country because my whole life, I've had to explain my name (Anita--no, it's not pronounced like the Spanish 'ah-neet-uh', it's 'ah-knit-tuh'. It's Latvian. Latvia is a Baltic republic that was once part...etc.). Having Latvia be its own country allows me to skip over the whole Russian occupation deal. This is why I just go by 'Ani'. But I digress...

Ever since I was a little kid, I've been eating these cookies. And since I'm on a phonetic pronunciation streak...'peep-pah-kooks'. They are thin little gingerbread cookies. My Dad's Mom used to make them with a hint of orange zest. I never got the real recipe from her but I found this one in a 1997 Gourmet magazine. I made some for my Mom's Mom a few years back and she smiled and nodded approvingly. Success! I love pleasing my Grandmother. You know you've done something right when you can make food that reminds your Grandmother of the old country, "just like what we used to have on the farm". I made some pickled beets at Christmas a few years ago that garnered the same reaction.

Kidlet was happy to help me make these. She pulls the chair up to the kitchen island and spends much time sifting the dry ingredients between her fingers. She was very helpful in the rolling and cutting process, "It's like Play-Doh!". And my favorite part is when I take them out of the oven, "Let me feel your hot hand!" She loves to feel the warm oven mitt. She snuggled right up to it and said, "I love your hot hand". Too bad I'm not a pro BBall player, sinking shots right and left and raking in the dough. Ok, that whole hot hand-dough connection was a stretch. Cookies...mmm...