To my daughter:  It is time that we teach you about your namesake. And I’ll use her own words here, because I always liked them.

First, this is through a recipe – I think she’d like that.  By doing this, I am handing you down a recipe “through the generations” insofar as this was passed to me from Grandma and now to you. Mind you, it wouldn’t surprise me if the recipe came from the back of a magazine, but it really does not matter. This was her recipe.

Grandma taught me to bake these cookies in her 1 bedroom apartment in West Hollywood, about the time I was a college freshman.  They became a staple around my apartment, and when I’d go camping in my car to ski a batch of these would be my breakfast, lunch, dinner and occasional snack (the most important meal of the day). And now that you’ve got your first college acceptance letter in hand, it is time that you learn the same.

Many things happened in that little apartment and mostly once I was grown up and could drive over to visit.  This recipe came to me during the first holidays that I came home from college.  She wrote it down for me, and we made some in her very small kitchen. On a Tuesday.

Tuesday nights were special.  My dad would go and visit Grandma and Grandpa that evening, and I started tagging along. I’m pretty sure that this was the only time of the week that Grandpa got out of his easy chair and turned off sports. Life after a stroke took the wind from his legs, but not the love of sports from his heart.

So on my first visit, she asked me an obvious and grandmotherly question: “Leiben, Who are you shtupping?”  (Um, no one, grandma!).  And we baked cookies. Perhaps that is why my college dinner parties were called “Chez Leiben”.

Over the Tuesdays, I had learned a few things about your great-grandmother.

First, you are named Mollie – a good Jewish name that goes to the Boston Irish neighborhood where she grew up.  Truthfully, I never understood what brought her to LA somewhere in her teens. I’ll let you ask your Grandpa that one (may he rest in peace).

But they did eat fish on Fridays, or so I’m told. For no particular reason except that this is the way it was done. Since I was there on Tuesdays, we instead had her “tamale pie”, something so authentically Mexican that your Mom’s side of the family would take one look and wonder what the hell it is. I don’t think she gave a damn what culture it came from.

She and Grandpa were not religious people, but her home was a temple. One year she tried to take your great-grandfather to Yom Kippur services. She was turned away by the temple because they did not have tickets and because Grandpa couldn’t stand for the service. So, she told me while sitting on her sofa, “This is my shul”.  She explained to me that God could pretty much visit her wherever he chose, so why not in her living room?

That probably explains the tacky blue-plastic-y ring.  According to her, it was blessed by the Pope, and “It couldn’t hurt”.  The oddest thing – she wore another ring on her fingers; a tarnished silvery looking ring that did not stand out next to the Pope ring. 

And at my wedding to your Mom, after she passed, my dad passed Lizzy that very ring. Shined up to show the platinum and diamonds he said “She wanted you to have it”.  Your Mom wears it only on special occasions.

Or the other ring story she told me.  When she met your great-grandfather, she took his school ring and hid it down her, how shall I say this, shirt.  He had to take her out to get it back.  “We’ve been married 63 years, divorced 62”. 

She grew old watching the West Hollywood neighborhood change as she lived there from somewhere in the mid-60’s until the 80’s.  At first, it was where she packed up all the local biddies, charged them $5 to go to Gardena, and made their retirement playing cards “for free”. You NEVER played cards with Grandma the card-shark.

And by the 80’s, when the area was turning much more into the LGBTQ district it is today, she was watching the change. “My manager, he’s a [insert completely inappropriate Yiddish word here]. He’s nice, but I don’t understand why all the leather.”  No, Grandma, I don’t know why all the leather. I do know that you didn’t give a crap that he was gay, but that he was nice. Just a sense of style, I suppose.

Now that pot is legal, I suppose I can tell you that she asked me if I tried it. (Of course not, Grandma!)  “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. I tried it with your Cousin Lisa. It just made me tired.” I can only wonder what a lifelong smoker would think of the pot-shops that will spring up now that it is all legal and stuff.

So I pass you a recipe for what we now would call ‘biscotti’.  Except the stuff that I get in the coffee shops and bakeries is only loved by my dentist, as they’re so tough they’d take out your fillings.  Like your great grandma, these look tough but are really pretty tender.

Enjoy this recipe. Add it to your sugar cookies and share it with your friends, like I did.

And save me a couple of Tuesday nights.

Mollie Hersh Mandel Bread (MandelBrot) Recipe

Ingredients

• 3 ½ cup All Purpose Flour
• 1 cup Sugar
• 1 ½ tsp Baking Powder                                                          
• 3 eggs, mixed
• 1 cup oil
• Zest one orange
• Juice one orange (No, we NEVER measure)
• 1 cup sliced almonds

Pre-heat oven to 350.

Recipe

Mix together. Really, that’s it.

Line a cookie sheet with Tin Foil. 

Take the dough, and form it into 2 or 3 logs. Each is about 2-3 inches wide, ½ inch tall, and as long as the pan.  When I was a kid, I cheated by using the sides of the pan to help shape it out. It tastes the same.

Bake 45 minutes.  It will be lightly brown but still doughy.

Cut the logs into ½ inch strips on the bias, turn sideways.  Take the crumbs and eat them. Now. While they are Hot. This is essential – for the cook.

Bake them another 30 minutes until they’re mostly dry.  If browning, turn down the heat to 325ish.