OUT OF THE BLUE

Now, in the sunset of my baking career, I realize that cookies, like clothes, define who we are. That definition is made possible by the plethora of commercial cookies in every shape, flavor and permutation, the poster child being Oreos. Yet questions remain: “How do you like your chocolate chip cookies? Crisp or mushy? Mini, regular or jumbo chips? Bittersweet or a sugar high? Homemade, bakery or commercial?”

For a baseline I offer this personal experience:

My mother adored sweets but never baked, unless you count brownies for the bridge luncheon and slice-and-bake icebox cookies in December, for people who “drop by.” Milano describes her prototype — two tongue-shaped wafers glued together with chocolate. So when push came to shove, she would spread a thin layer of simple chocolate frosting between two vanilla wafers. Back in the days of real vanilla, they were good. Now, the same ploy tastes like Styrofoam.

Milanos themselves have shriveled to nothing, but I love ’em anyway.

Back to matching cookie to personality.

Oreos: Do you twist and lick, or dunk whole? Each camp is battle-ready. Are you a classicist, who rails at Oreo yogurt, Oreo Cakesters?

Fig Newtons retain an almost biblical earthiness; their aficionados recall a time when Birkenstock meant more than a sandal, when only the co-op carried organic veggies. Strawberry Newtons miss the point, although dates might tempt the figgy crowd.

Lorna Doones? A favorite with proper Brits, who prefer a shortbread biscuit with their afternoon tea. Named after the central character in an 1869 British novel, LDs were introduced to the Colonies in 1912. Unpopularity/unfamiliarity now relegates them to an unreachable top shelf.

Garibaldi, the proper name for flat raisin cookies long gone from the monster roster, suited pranksters who insisted the raisins were squished bugs.

Biscotti, despite an Italian aura, belong to intelligentsia wearing plaid and cashmere for weekends at the cottage — a 14-room country manor in the highlands. Either that, or frequenters of the Seattle coffee scene, who know that “Starbuck” is a character lifted from Moby-Dick.

A person’s age may be determined by asking whether he/she remembers Social Teas, so plain and non-sweet I call them punishment cookies. However, they might rightly tempt dunksters with a texture that holds up to cocoa.

The emotionally stunted CEO whose mother denied him cookies because he wouldn’t finish his green beans now, to the ants’ delight, compensates by keeping a box of Nutter Butters in his desk drawer. After all, peanut butter is protein.

Graham crackers, for generations baby’s first treat (since they dissolve in drool), recaptured campfire folks’ attention as s’mores. Recognize s’mores-lovers by their burnt fingers, chocolate-stained T-shirts and faces. At least this mess is worth it.

Is lemon the new chocolate? Observe the interest in Oreo Lemon Thins and Sunkist Thin Shortbread with Lemon Crème Filling. They are cheerful cookies for the smiley-faced set. But watch out, you citrus-seekers. Not all that lemon zing comes from real lemons.

I was terribly upset when Biscoff jumped from passenger flights to supermarket shelves. Aloft, they cause crumbs and greasy fingers. The very mention dredges up memories of long delays, bumpy rides. They make me miss the cute little meal dispensed by flight attendants who weren’t Social Security eligible. When baggage flew free in the underbelly instead of a jammed-up overhead compartment.

A pox on Biscoff!

Picture a svelte 50-something Manhattan career gal, wearing a little black dress and real pearls, slicing a real chocolate wafer icebox cake made with real whipped cream. Alas, Nabisco has discontinued the cookie that made a million reputations. So far, urbanites have found no replacement. Don’t give up. If Voortmans can field an oxymoronic Zero Sugar Fudge Brownie Chocolate Chip cookie, anything’s possible.