Theme and variations upon a hospital.

After they take your son to the procedure room, you'll have hours. You know you'll have hours. That sunny window, looking over the valley--that's a good place to spend the hours, because you can watch the big stacked clouds shape shift in a sea of blue. You can look up and see the furthest mountains in the west, and the inland sea.

And you can just stay there looking out that window, looking up to catch the sun glinting off your face, your glasses. Because if you wander far from the waiting room just outside the procedure room, how will they find you? Even if they have your cell phone number, what if there's no reception? What then?

You will have brought your work with you. But the hospital is not a great place for work. There is so much worry and conspicuous soothing and lots and lots of waiting.

That music from the lobby below, made on a variety of pipes? Is that supposed to help?

So many white-haired people, couples, waiting.

The best part is when they tell you everything went better than fine--when the person at the front desk is on the phone figuring stuff out, but then you see the doctor coming optimistically toward you, with a lift in his step. That's one best part. Another best part is when you go back, and your son is awake and already funny again, and they're bringing him ice water and then crackers.

And then they tell you he can go home that very night.

You can text everyone. You can fill the prescriptions. You can go down the patient elevator with the wheelchair guy. You can leave the hospital, just drive away, as if you will never come back.

Baking with my eyes closed.

Readers of this blog may know that there are a handful of recipes I can make by heart--a baguette, whole wheat bread, muffins, corn bread--although it's also true that I must still pay attention, as a previous incident demonstrates, wherein I accidentally used twice the amount of water for the baguettes. Still, I just ended up with twice the bread, so that wasn't really so tragic.

Anyhow, it's also true that certain cookies have a pretty basic formula, and you can play with that formula and come up with good cookies every time. For instance, shortbread. I once read a thorough disquisition on shortbread (in the late and still lamented Cuisine magazine), written by a Scot, and therefore pretty much the ultimate authority. Shortbread can be gussied up, although that's apparently heresy, but a true shortbread is basically this: 1 part sugar, 2 parts butter, 4 parts flour, as well as a pinch of salt. As in, 1 c. sugar, 2 c. butter (yes! a whole pound!), 4 c. flour. I have in fact made various nutty shortbreads, with chopped pecans or almonds, and also cacao nib shortbread. Also, chocolate shortbread. Shortbread is excellent and a stellar go-to cookie.

Last night, I decided I wanted some cookies, and began with a stick of butter, softened, and about 3/4 c. sugar, which I mixed together until creamy. Then I stirred in one egg and a splash of vanilla. Astute bakers may recognize this as a semblance of the Toll House cookie recipe. I threw in some whole wheat pastry flour, about a cup and three quarters, as well as some baking powder and salt. Because we had had polenta for dinner (which was delicious, but that's a whole 'nother genre of cooking), I also added about a quarter cup of dry polenta. Then, some chopped almonds and some cacao nibs. Baked at 375 for about 10 minutes.

I once knew someone who could make a cake without a recipe. I've never done that, but I'm pretty pleased with myself for making cookies by heart. And the cookies were delicious.