On Mud Muffins

Of all the kitchens it is possible to construct--beautifully appointed, state of the art, spotless environments--I think the most lovely ones are outside under the great sky, in the prow of an old blue boat, in a deep hole randomly dug by big boys long gone off to other enterprises, at the edge of the wooden porch steps, out yonder where no one sees.

Wherever the good rain pools and the dry dust turns gently into thick and splooshy mud. Anywhere the hose and buckets reach. Anywhere.

Children are unanimous in their penchant for dirt and water because they so easily translate into splendid textures of mud.

What other readily available medium can be made into bridges, complex housing, smooth velvety gloves, no-run leggings, paint, stalactites, dog dye, and also sumptuous meals? There is no better thing than mud for all of these.

My earliest culinary experiments were in this vast kitchen: mud muffins in tiny scalloped tins, ideal for slow and perfect solar baking.

My father, with his immoderate love, took one, consuming it in a| hasty gulp and told me it was delicious, wonderful! The best he'd ever tasted. I was aglow.

On another day, having worked my way into the house, I prepared for him savory grinder cupcakes made of crushed saltine crackers, carefully mixed with water throughout an afternoon of soft chattering to my small internal cast of characters, and baked for real in the corner of my mother's oven for at least one hour, just in time for his homecoming.

At the risk of his teeth, after a long day at work, possibly relieved to see before him something categorically edible, my loyal champion this time honored me with a second helping. The concept of cooking as an expression of love was unveiled.

Now my daughter brings me pies, shimmering brown chocolate ones, adorned with little stones and flowers; mullein salads dressed with cat-dish water and chamomile, aromatic wild sage appetizers, and freshly brewed pine needle tea. We feast and exchange quiet, pleasantries, occasionally in dialects, relishing our island of pretending in this stormy, topsy-turvy household.

Teaching children to cook provides them with a skill they enjoy learning, and it provides the regular cook, eventually, with respite. Once they have learned to read and have been through a suitable period of culinary boot camp at my elbow, I have learned to leave my children alone to cope with the fractions, directions, and my psychic no-label spice and herb cupboard.

At this point, I am willing to act as a consultant. The kitchen becomes their domain. Our policy, which includes airspace, mandates that while they cook, their music, as well as their onion and spicing proclivities, prevail. Usually, we rock out. I'm always happy to turn them loose with this recipe for Toasted Oatmeal Cookies.

In a heavy skillet, melt:

3/4 C. butter

Add to it:

2 1/2 C. raw rolled oats

Use the hefty regular kind of oats and stir occasionally while they soak in and toast to golden. This takes about five minutes. Remove from the heat and cool.

In a large bowl, measure and stir together:

1/2 C. flour

1 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. baking soda

Set aside.

When the oats are cool, add to them and stir well:

1/2-3/4 C. honey

1 egg

1 tsp. vanilla.

Now sift into the skillet the dry mixture and you have, after you have stirred it in a bit, a basic cookie dough.

Here are some suggestions for variations. While the oats are still slightly warm, add a bunch of chocolate chips. Or add to the oats, right at the beginning, some flaked coconut and let it toast along, adding its sweetness.

A small dose of cardamom added to the dry ingredients or a cup of chopped nuts, a small dollop of jam in the centers all add distinctive changes.

Bake in a preheated oven at 350 degrees for about 10-12 minutes. They will be light and golden, crisp.

Now, as you will notice, you have no dishes to wash so you can take those warm cookies outside for tea time with the kitties and their friends, the proper English ladies, and with young bears you are taming, and the magical mice, and any nice giants who might stop by.