Pizzelle looking waffle cookie

The crisp December air promises to bring snow and colder temperatures. I feel disconnected from memories of my youth during the same time of year. I travel back in time and picture sunny skies despite the seasonal cold. There’s anticipation crackling in the air, taking on a life of its own, sweeping everyone along with it. People, if one looks more closely, are more hurried even if it’s only the beginning of December. There’s a bite in the air as I ride the jeepney home from school. Instead of enjoying the wind blowing the hair off my face, I wish I’d sat closer to the front just behind the driver.

I travel back to the present. As I sit in front of the computer writing this piece, I listen to the warm air blowing through the vents. The skies are gray. Winter’s sleeping on one of the steps dreaming doggie dreams. A car passes by every so often and when I look out, I see someone huddled upon the steering wheel lost in thought.

My mind takes me back to an early sunny morning. I see myself greeting my Auntie Andring (pronounced Ahn-dreeng), Dad’s older sister. She’s just arrived from her trip from the convent where she lives. She unloads a can of waffle cookies from her bayong (bah-young). They look ordinary among the rest of the goodies she’s brought with her. I’m not sure if this is when I first tasted and fell in love with these cookies, but I do remember my siblings and I looking forward to eating them again at Christmas, which was the only time she ever brought them.

All these years, I had only thought to think back fondly to those long ago waffle cookie-filled Christmases. My Mom stumbled upon cookies (pizzelles) that, although they looked similar, never tasted the same as the waffle cookies from my youth. It had become some sort of scavenger hunt among members of the family to see who might find the cookie that tasted closely, if not the same, as those my Auntie Andring baked. Then out of the blue, while waiting to see the dentist, I came across a picture of waffle cookies in a magazine. Here, they were referred to as “gadettes”. Curious, but cautiously keeping my excitement in check, I read through the introduction to the recipe. When I saw “Belgian”, I knew I was on to something! After all, Auntie Andring got her cookie recipe from her fellow Belgian nuns. As if to tease me, Fate decided that it was my turn to see the dentist. I put down the magazine making a mental note to take pictures of the recipe with my BlackBerry on my way out. A lot of good that did for me; in my rush to get home (I had to work that evening), I forgot. I don’t ever look forward to going back to the dentist in between 6-month check-ups, but this time I did! It meant I had another chance to get the waffle cookie recipe. That day, Fate played nice with me. My appointment time came and went without the dentist having to call me in just yet. This gave me plenty of time to take all the pictures I needed.

In between work and life in general, it took a few days for me to find a waffle iron and to get all the ingredients I needed. I bought a pizzelle press instead, ignoring the $39.99 Black Friday price tag, determined to put the recipe to the test. It might seem like a downer when I say that the cookies weren’t as sweet as I remember, but considering that this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to eating home-baked ones, they’re amazing! My first batch yielded about 28 cookies, 24 of which found their way to my Mom’s where I’d told my siblings they could get a sample of. Everyone said they were really good, although like typical family members, I was told they needed more rum, more butter, more… you get the picture. But not to worry. I am comforted with the thought that I can finally bake a reminder of my childhood Christmases. The disconnection I felt when I first sat down to write isn’t as strong anymore because I know I’ve recaptured a tradition from my youth to share with my daughter. That recipe will bridge Christmas memories from my youth to memories with my daughter. I can’t ask for a better end to my search for the elusive waffle cookie recipe!

When I was an adolescent, I fancied myself a writer. I wrote poems, short stories, and essays. My love for Nancy Drew books inspired me to think of mysteries for my friends to solve. I’d leave clues around our classroom, short notes with cryptic instructions that they always enjoyed deciphering. Our mystery games brought out the sleuth in them while bringing out the creative writer in me.

I don’t remember how I acquired my very first diary. I do remember, though, writing how angry I was at my Dad one time, my current crush, an embarrassing situation I couldn’t bring myself to talk to my Mom about, my new crush, an adventure around the neighborhood with friends, another new crush… Years later, it occurred to me that keeping a diary was juvenile, so I stopped. Even many years later, I became a scrapbooker. I noticed that not only did I enjoy decorating pages of pictures; I looked forward to writing about them. I found that I belong to a minority of scrapbookers who enjoy “journaling” (the term used to describe the act of writing a short blurb about a picture on a scrapbook layout). I recognized that I was leaving my legacy among the pages of my scrapbooks and I wanted to write better. I registered for journaling classes wherever I could find them. I got better (at least I think I did) and became even more creative in my story-telling.

I started keeping a journal again. I discovered The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and wrote diligently early in the morning every single day for eight months. I bore witness to the shift in my thinking and writing. I became even more creative, but this time, not in my use of words, but in living. I envisioned things I wanted and found myself doing the actions that correspond to manifesting my desires. My thinking became more focused and clear, my movements deliberate. Somehow, I knew what I needed to do; my instincts were very strong. I didn’t waste time analyzing how this could be. I just kept doing what felt very natural.

I didn’t realize that I had been reaping all these benefits from journal-writing until I parked my pen again. It took five months for me to notice that I floated through my days, doing routine things out of habit and without thought. I lived, yes, but I didn’t participate. I made a few attempts to get back on track. Some were successful, others weren’t. Eventually I found my old rhythm. I don’t write every single morning anymore, but I do make the time to write every other day or so. With a newly-acquired knowledge of journal-writing techniques, I’m able to tap into that part of me that needs to be heard or that I want to explore. I’ve noticed that my words come easier and are very specific, heartfelt and authentic. Even the mundane stuff gets written about in such a way that makes it extraordinary.

I’ve discovered a loyal friend in my journal. I have access to it anytime I want. After a 5-month hiatus, it welcomed me back with open arms and has done so every single time since. I used to wonder what the correct term was for these “thought catchers” – diary or journal? Not anymore. Now I only wonder what I can become more aware of or what I can manifest next. I am finally participating in life again.