Cherry Vanilla Oatmeal Cookies

The biggest compliment I've gotten on these cookies was the question, "Is it wrong to have cookies for breakfast?"

"Heck no," I replied. "Cherries are healthy. So are oats. And vanilla. The butter and sugar don't count. Especially not for breakfast."

First, gather your ingredients.

The dry stuff (lolkitten not included).

The wet stuff and add-ins.

Mix your dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Cream butter, brown sugar and honey in largish bowl until mostly free of lumps. Since there's honey, it won't be fluffy like a regular butter/sugar cream. You can use a mixer, but I use a fork because I'm hardcore. Mix in vanilla and egg.

Ickis helped.

 Add dry stuff to wet gradually. I do so in 2 additions. Toss in dried cherries and white chocolate chips (or nuts, if you're nutty). Mix until JUST blended. Overmixing will turn your cookies tough and chewy (in a bad way).

Lolkitten can not haz.

I don't measure the add-ins. I just dump until I'm satisfied.

 Chill batter in the fridge for half an hour. This step is very important. This will firm up the honey slightly so that your cookies won't flatten too badly in the oven. During this half hour, you can do Jell-o shots, Riverdance, taste the batter, resist the urge to eat the rest of the batter, fail, and preheat the oven to 350. After what's left of your batter is properly chilled, spoon onto a lightly greased cookie sheet by the teaspoon.

Don't do what I did. Use a good cookie sheet with a light grease. Not foil.

 Pop them in the oven and wait for the longest ten minutes of your life. Give them a minute or two to settle before you remove them to a wire rack to cool. I won't say not to eat them right out of the oven, because I know you'll try anyway. Don't sue me for mouth burns; that's all I ask.

Ickis you are in the way.

Batch yield: 2 dozenish. The smaller you spoon them, the more quickly they will get eaten. True story.

My cookies make lolcats forget about cheezburgers.

I'll be honest; I don't like crunchy cookies, so you won't see recipes on this blog that will yield crunchy cookies. These are soft and moist and chewy and are best stored in an airtight container to maintain that gooey softness that keeps folks rabid for these cookies. And I do mean rabid.

The numbers:
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, softened
1/2 cup light brown sugar, packed
1/3 cup honey (there is wiggle room for the proportion of honey to sugar; just make sure there's more brown sugar than honey. Honey is what makes this recipe; too much of it will unmake it)
1 egg
1 tablespoon vanilla extract (very important)

3/4ish cup all-purpose flour (don't go over 1 cup or under 2/3; other than that, you're good)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2ish teaspoon ground cinnamon (I always go heavy, but don't go crazy. For once, you don't want the cinnamon to clash with the primary flavors; instead, you want it to enhance the vanilla and complement the oats)
1/4 teaspoon salt (I often use a half teaspoon, but I like more salt in my baked goods)
1 3/4ish cups rolled oats (don't go over 2 cups or under 1 1/2)

3/4ish cup cherries
1/2ish cup white chocolate chips
or 1/2 cup walnuts, pecans, etc.

Clearly, strict measurement is important to me. This is how I bake. I start with a basic recipe (oatmeal cookies, in this case), and throw stuff into a bowl until it smells good. That kind of experimentation is the best way to learn to bake and to cook in general. Don't be afraid to screw up. It happens to everybody. No recipe is foolproof. Happy baking!

Leave questions and recipe tweaks in the comments section. I'm looking forward to see how folks can improve upon this recipe!

You Have Been Christened

Every workplace has its culture, and every culture has its (unspoken) rites of initiation. I passed through my first major one at the animal hospital where I work as a vet assistant.

I have witnessed the death of an animal.

Funny thing was, I didn’t know it was dead at first.

“Kate,” one of the techs said to me. “I want you to know that there’s a cat coming in with possible renal failure. It’s probably gonna have a lot of bloodwork done before it gets hospitalized, so be available to restrain.”

Okay, gotcha, I said. I was inwardly excited; the techs were just beginning to trust me to restrain animals without supervision or assistance. And this one was a cat. I had proved myself from the beginning better at restraining large dogs because I worked those three wonderful years at Claws and Paws. But cats are more difficult to restrain because they require a more delicate, finessed approach than a tackle-headlock.

Soon, the tech walked back into the treatment area where I had busied myself. She had a pink towel in her arms. She put it on the table and announced, “Seventeen years old. Domestic shorthair, four and a half pounds. Let’s try to get some fluids into her if her veins haven’t collapsed already.”

The image you have in your mind is probably about the same one that met my eyes when I pulled the towel back. A calico cat named, charmingly, Cali, lay on the table barely able to lift her head. Her fur, still full, made her look far more, well, full than she was. I ran my hands down her body and felt every single bone. The tech, armed with needles and a bag of fluid, attempted to draw blood while I held Cali in the usual restraint: one hand gripping the scruff tightly and one hand holding and anchoring the leg from which blood is drawn, while the same elbow kept the cat close to my body to prevent it from thrashing and getting loose.

But thrashing really wasn’t an issue with Cali. So I gentled up my hold on her scruff. Her head dropped. My heart stopped; I thought she’d died. But she lifted it laboriously, gazing at the world from bleary, tired eyes.

“Don’t you scare me like that, kiddo,” I murmured, burying my face in her fur, which smelled sweet. I kissed her and talked to her as the tech attempted draw after draw from both front legs and the side of her neck, ignoring the frequent outbursts of “fuck” and “goddamn oldass cat veins”.

“I can’t get anything. She’s too dehydrated. Her veins are like tire rubber. Let’s get some fluids in her and tomorrow we’ll try for blood,” the tech said, and I changed up my restraint: hands holding the cat’s head by the lower jaw and nose, thereby keeping the head immobile and the mouth shut. Usually cats like this hold less, but Cali no more complained about my hands all over her face than she did about having a needle painfully and repeatedly inserted into her body.

All the while I’d kept my finger on the pulse under her left elbow, but now with both hands occupied by her head I couldn’t monitor her dismally slow heart rate. But I did blow gently into her ears every once in a while; if they twitched, she lived.

“I have to put this IV in her back leg, Kate. I need you to hold her real still, ‘kay?” The tech said. I nodded and focused solely on minimizing Cali’s already minimal movement by keeping her snugged to my body and my hands completely still on her head. Cali and I remained motionless for a long while, listening to the murmurs of the tech.

“Uh. This fluid ain’t budgin’. Is kitty still with us?” The tech asked. I moved a finger from Cali’s jaw to the artery in her neck, already laid bare by the tech’s clippers and the complete absence of fat on Cali.

I felt nothing.

“Uh. I can’t feel anyth--”

“Lemme see.” The tech pressed two fingers to the spot, then pulled them away. “Nope. Kitty has left the building. You can let go of her now.”

I did, but only after I’d kissed her and told her I love you and goodbye.

With effort I compartmentalized and proceeded with the remaining three hours of my shift, which involved a different sort of christening (a story for another time). I allowed the grief to come on my way home, and I cried. I remembered the two deaths I’d witnessed at Claws and Paws, the deaths of my own pets, and the deaths of my human loved ones. Cali is and was no different than my dog or my cat or my grandmother. Cali was born, grew, was loved, and then left this world just like every other living thing has to do.

During the 8-minute ride home I realized something that should have come to me way sooner than it did. The reason why those in the veterinary business care for animals is not for the animal’s sake. Animals can and do live complete lives without human intervention; they’ve been doing it for millions of years. No, the real reason why veterinarians, techs and vet assistants like me do what we do is because of the bond between an animal and its human. It is that bond that created the need for animal doctors in the first place. The moment we domesticated animals was the moment we became responsible for their lives and their futures. And the moment we began to love them was the moment we began to care about their health and their feelings. Yes, we do it for the animal, but if it weren’t for the human who brought the animal in, well... you get it.

Half an hour before my shift ended was the tech’s time to leave. I was restocking supplies in the treatment area when she approached me.

“Congratulations, you have been christened.”

“Whuh?” I asked, blindsided.

“The kitty that croaked.”

“Oh,” I said, refusing to let those emotions out from their box yet. “I thought you were talking about the dog who expressed his anal glands all over me.”

The tech burst into laughter. “Oh, then you’ve been christened twice! Today’s your day, then!”

“Yeah, thanks.”

She left, chuckling, and I felt a momentary spike of anger for her carelessness about Cali. But I understood that she’d probably seen dozens if not more similar deaths; she’d callused up that part of her heart, as she ought to do. And I will probably do the same over time.

But for now, I don’t know how my realization will affect my work with animals or how soon. But I do know that it will affect me deeply and profoundly. I have been changed; I have been christened.

No Child Left Behind Strikes Again

Those of you on Facebook have probably already read this before, but I'm going to repost it here.

November 2009

Recently I found a family of cats living on the edge of the woods that border my apartment complex. Being who I am, I started feeding them and earning their trust.

It has been almost two weeks and Mama and the babies are relatively comfortable around me.

Tonight I brought them their food as usual, but instead of waiting for me to call to them, they met me at the edge of the parking lot, meowing and being, as kittens are, rampantly cute.

I sat down with them, which is part of the trust-gaining process. Occasionally I'd reach out and pet a kitten to acclimate them to my touch, but otherwise I sat peacefully and kept watch.

I heard a soft cooing voice, a human voice, off to my right. A girl, younger than me but not by much, was creeping out between two cars, trying her best to be quiet. I smiled at her.

"Aww, little cats!" she said. "I've never seem them so little!"

By that I thought she meant she'd never seen young kittens before. Which I chalked up to not having been around animals much. I made conversation.

"Aren't they cute? I found them a couple weeks ago. I'm trying to get them to trust me so I can take them to a shelter to find homes. The mama cat's all right, but the kittens are still wary."

"Kittens?" she asked.

"Yeah. All six."

"Is that what they're called?"

I was slightly confused. Did she think I named all the kittens "Kitten"? I asked, "What do you mean?"

"Little cats. Baby cats. Do you call them kittens?"

"Y-yes." Did she really not know what baby cats were called?

"Where's the daddy cat? Doesn't he take care of the kittens too?"

Confusion bloomed into bewilderment, but I kept it off my face. "Well, no. The dad doesn't have much to do with them anymore."

She clicked her tongue. "He's a sucky dad then."

This girl caught me completely off guard. I was too flabbergasted to be alarmed when she suddenly reached into the cluster of bodies around the food bowl, which of course provoked all seven into near-teleportation out of there. She jumped back and looked hurt, but only momentarily. Once the newness of the heretofore-unnamed kittens was gone, she lost interest and wandered away, leaving me alone with wet cat kibble, fur on my shirt and a whirlwind in my mind.

Had this girl never, until just an hour ago, encountered even the word "kitten"? Was she never taught that not all animals raise their young like humans do? I thought that was something you learned in primary school. Surely she'd come across a kitten somewhere, at least in an "A is For Aardvark" book...

To the parents and teachers of this child:

Where the hell are you??

Chococat

Screw the landlord, I'm keeping a cat in my apartment.

He's the tuxedo, the dark-colored one, the last one standing of six kittens from the litter Mama Cat had when I first found her this time two months ago.

Since he was dark-colored and very shy, he was my least favorite kitten of the bunch.  I've had solid-colored black or grey cats all my life (except for a brief stint with a tuxedo named Gus which I try to wipe from my mind), and the white and orange tabby kittens were of much more interest to me.

But for some reason, Little Bit was the only one who stuck around.  Three of the kittens found homes, two disappeared, but Bit stayed with his mother, despite the apparent terror my presence caused him.  I did like every good foster would do: tried to socialize him, used the safety of his mother to help make him comfortable around people.  But I despaired; he would not come out of his shell.  It would be difficult to find him a home if he ran at the sight of people. 

Then, Mama Cat got herself knocked up again.  I was reasonably sure when I saw the tuxedoed tom wandering around; I was dead sure when Mama Cat turned up at my door looking like she'd swallowed a dodgeball.  I'd made her an appointment to get spayed today, actually, but that's another ordeal to tell.

Mama Cat thereafter wanted nothing to do with her remaining son and began reprimanding him for breathing her air, in that special clawy-bleedy way that cats do.  Which is normal, but a bit heartbreaking.  Mama Cat has wanted less to do with me as well, but Bit has completely changed his tune.

He has become my dream kitten.  He has become the cat I've always wanted, the cat that will actually cuddle with me instead of allowing me to touch him on his terms.  Bit will let me hold him for as long as I can stand and longer, he will curl up in my lap wherever I sit and purr until it gets awkward, he will cry and cry and cry until I pay attention to him, and whatever attention I give he will cherish.  In turn, I try to give him as much attention as I can, offer him as many playthings as I have on hand (sacrificing a pair of socks, a dish towel and a set of shoelaces in the cause), and welcome him with a purr of my own whenever he seeks a warm place to sleep.  I love him deeply, as much as I have loved any animal, as much as I swore to myself I could not.

In the back of my mind I knew I had to find a home for him before I leave for New York, but in the rest of my mind I gripped jealously to the hope that I could take him with me.  But I made a vet appointment in any case, and I took him to get his vaccines yesterday.

Imagine my surprise when he stepped out of the cage and the vet tech dropped her jaw and went "Oh my God."

What?  I know I'm not schooled or qualified, but I'm not blind.  Is there some horrific ailment on him that I'm not seeing?  What??

"Is...is he... brown?  What color is he?"

"I... don't know.  I guess he's brown.  Brown-grey."

"I have never SEEN a cat that color," the tech squealed, and called in the rest of the staff that was not elbow-deep in animal.

I thought Little Bit was black when I first saw him, but as he got older his coat lightened to a shade that I couldn't really call grey, was too light for black and was too black for brown.  Not that "brown" would be a cat color, not like the earth-brown of a chocolate lab or the flecked agouti of a rat.

Like brown horses, brown cats just don't exist.  In the genetics of horse coloring, there is no "brown" gene, but two base colors, black and red, and a series of "dilute" genes that bleed the melanin out of these colors in different patterns and make all the variations you see.  The closest to true brown you can get are the diluted-black combinations of bay, liver chestnut, and a seal color that's really just a black mane and tail and tan highlights in the flank, muzzle and underbelly.  Since I had never seen a brown cat, I figured something like the genetics in horses applied to cats as well, so though I was seeing "brown", I thought "grey". 

"Cats like you just don't exist," the veterinarian cooed as she held the ever-purring Bit up to examine him,  "especially not in tuxedoes."  The doctor told me that some rare exotic breeds are just straight-up brown, also called seal, but without much of the highlights horses have.  She asked me what color his parents were.  I said his mother was white and I thought his father was a black tuxedo, but I wasn't so sure.  She asked me what color Bit was when he was littler, and I said I thought he'd been black, which is why I named him as I did.  She nodded sagely and said, "He probably was black.  I really wonder if he'll change color again."  I asked her if she thought he would, and she said she'd no idea.

"You're a little chocolate kitten, aren't you," she said, which set off a flurry of chocolate-related names from the staff all crowded into the room.  "Godiva," said one.  "But he's a boy," said another.  "Hershey," "Nestle," "Ghiardelli," "Too fancy!"  "Truffle," "Cocoa,"... it went on.

I for one preferred "Chococat", after this fellow.

He's cousin to Hello Kitty and cuter than her, I think.  I also tried "Charlie", after the famous book about a chocolate factory, and so far Bit has yet to show his dislike.

But really, it's not up to me.  It's up to the lady that will be coming to pick him up later today.

Since he was such a celebrity, if not for his color than for his patience, good temper and surprising lack of nervousness that most cats exhibit when being poked and prodded in uncomfortable places, the whole staff said that they'd find someone to foster him right away.

They weren't lying.  I was barely home when I got an email from one tech who gave me the phone number of a foster lady.  I called her and that's that.

I will miss my Little Bit a lot-a-bit.