So, I grew up with parents who wanted me to call them by their first names, I didn’t have a lot of refined sugar until I was like ten, and I still think carob is kind of a treat. WHATEVER. I also developed a healthy love of the outdoors and a healthy respect for how much geese and chickens hate us. But there were a few times my hippie upbringing and the real world collided, hard, and one of those times was in the matter of, well, cookies.

These cookies.

Image result for peanut blossoms

Image: peanut butter cookies on a baking sheet. The cookies have been baked until they cracked, and then an unwrapped Hershey’s Kiss has been pressed into the center of each one.  Credit: Pillsbury.com

The name of these cookies is “peanut blossoms” and they are hecking amazing and you should make some, right now, if you’ve never had them. (If you’ve had them, you’re already looking through your recipe cards. Here, don’t say I never gave you anything.)

Only, my family never called them peanut blossoms.

We had a totally different name for them. A name which will make perfect sense to you once you hear it, and a name that I need you to contextualize by understanding that I have literally no memory of having “the talk” with my folks but I do have a memory of packing my leotard with stuffed animals and “giving birth” to a litter of stuffies via one leghole.

We always knew where babies came from. We knew there was no Santa Claus, and that Jesus was a pretty nice guy who had lived a long time ago, but that God was something that people who needed that kind of thing believed in.

And this, right here, is where my upbringing starts to run into problems. Or at least resemble that “radical honesty” guy that you swiped right on, exchanged ten words with, and blocked. See, my  mom kind of thought that, since she didn’t remember being taught manners, kids probably came with a lot of “shit that is appropriate” software preloaded.

Spoilers: they don’t?

So things would happen like, my mom would invite a bunch of kids she hoped would be my friends over, and they’d go home, and she’d tell me I was a terrible person for getting water without offering my guests any, because obviously I had come loaded with the “offer your guests something first” app. Or, like, I was never primed with the knowledge that you should take a little bit of everything on the table and try it and say it was good, if you were a guest. That one didn’t work out well either.

But the pièce de résistance was when my school had some sort of cookie day. Don’t ask me: I don’t remember what it was. Coulda been a Christmas exchange. Coulda been a normal Thursday. I don’t know.

My mom made peanut blossoms for the exchange. My mom makes fucking amazing cookies, y’all. She should have been a pro baker. She has this “fantasy bakery” thing in her head and she tests recipes on all of us and they’re better than like 99% of professional things that I spent way too much money on. Her lemon tarts are like **kisses fingers**

Anyway.

So I go to school with a… tray? Bag? Probably a bag, a gallon Ziploc bag, because in the 80’s the knockoff zipper bags weren’t even worth BUYING, even on scant money, and ONE of us understood that appearances matter a little. Anyway. With a couple dozen peanut blossoms.

And everyone loved them. Seriously, go make that recipe, I know it sounds fussy but unless you’re allergic get on it, and if you’re allergic do it with almond or sunflower butter, it’ll be ok.

And the teacher turned to me, and said “these are amazing; they’re so good. What do you call them?”

Remember, my mother didn’t prime me with any information about what normal people consider appropriate.

Remember, I knew all the parts of your body by the proper names and where babies came from.

Remember, I didn’t know the cookies were called peanut blossoms because I had literally never heard them called that.

“Nipple-dee-doos!” I answered confidently.

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