The butter wouldn’t soften.
The banana chips were stale.
And I was already annoyed because Mae had said something sharp over text that morning—nothing big, just a “cool.” No punctuation. Like I was a stranger or a spam message or a ghost.
So I pulled out the mixer. Because if I couldn’t fix the mood, I could maybe sweeten it. Or at least drown it in oats and dried papaya.
And of course, Her Highness had a recipe for that.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha calls them Breakfast Cookies, which is already kind of a power move. Cookies, but for the morning. For people with tennis plans and flax seed routines. Her version reads like a pantry inventory after a Whole Foods apocalypse—two flours, four sticks of butter, enough oats and dried fruit to stock a bunker.
There’s a kind of precision in it. A moral superiority.
Half a cup of dried mango. Not more. Not less.
Pressed banana chips on top like a crown.
She makes eight of them, if you follow her scooping size. Eight cookies the size of your palm if you were an Olympian.
What I Did Differently (And Why I’m Not Sorry)
I didn’t have dried papaya. Or patience.
I used some chopped dates that were hiding behind the mustard. Added cinnamon, because she didn’t and that made me weirdly angry.
I halved the butter. Not because I’m virtuous, but because I only had two sticks left and didn’t feel like going to Hannaford in my slippers. I also didn’t shape them like perfect domes. I used my hand, flat-palmed, like I was sealing a letter I wasn’t going to send.
Banana chips? Forgot them. Ate a few while preheating the oven. They didn’t help.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I tried to cream the butter and sugar while the cat knocked something over in the bathroom.
Didn’t check what.
Probably toothpaste.
I scraped the bowl three times, muttering, because the brown sugar clung like a grudge. Mae used to love brown sugar on toast. “It tastes like cold molasses,” she’d say. Like that was a good thing.
The oats went in like sand. The almonds made noise.
When I added the chopped dates and cinnamon, the smell changed. Got warm.
Nan’s pie smell. Without the sadness.
I dropped dough in lopsided lumps on the tray. Didn’t measure. Didn’t care. Burnt the edge of one. Ate it anyway.
The whole kitchen smelled like trying again.
And not being sure why.
A Few Things I Learned
If you bake a cookie big enough, it quiets you down.
I don’t mean emotionally. I mean literally. You’re chewing too long to complain.
Also: dates were a good call. Not Martha’s way, but softer. A little slouchy. Like forgiveness, if it was baked.
What I Did With the Extras
Put three in foil for Mae. Didn’t send them.
Put one in the freezer labeled “Tuesday.” No idea why.
The rest sat on the counter until midnight.
I ate one standing up, rereading her text.
Still no punctuation.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
But I’d call them emotional infrastructure, not cookies.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It was cold that day.
Not just outside.
These helped. In a chewy, slow way.
If you’re after something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder. But this—this was quiet rebellion. With oats.
FAQs
Yeah, Totally. Just Wrap Them Tight. They Get A Little Softer, But Still Hold Their Chew. I’Ve Eaten One Half-Frozen In A Pinch And It Wasn’T Bad.
You’Ll Live. I Didn’T Have Mango Or Papaya And Used Dates. Raisins Work. Honestly, Anything Chewy And Sweet-Ish Will Do The Job.
I did. Martha says four sticks. I only had two. they still came out solid and sweet. not as rich, maybe, but they felt lighter somehow. like breakfast and not dessert.
Both. The Edges Go Golden And Crisp Up Nice, But The Centers Stay Tender If You Don’T Overbake. Like The Kind Of Cookie You Bite, Pause, Then Keep Chewing Because It Feels Like A Hug.
She Said “They’Re Not Bad” And Took Three. That’S A Yes In Teen Language.
Also, She Didn’T Complain About The Oats — Which Is Rare.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Breakfast Cookies
Description
Soft And Sweet With A Little Bite—Like The Mood I Was In.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Preheat the oven: Set it to 180°C (350°F) and find your old parchment paper. Mine curled at the edges like it remembered a fire. Two baking sheets, lined and waiting.
- Mix the dry ingredients: In a big chipped bowl, whisk together 2 cups whole-wheat flour, 2 cups all-purpose, 1½ teaspoons baking soda, and a good pinch of salt. I didn’t sift. I never do.
- Cream the butter and sugar: I only had 2 sticks of butter (not 4), but I made it work. Let them sit on the counter until soft enough to press a thumb into. Beat with a hand mixer until it looked like something you could forgive. Add 2 cups dark brown sugar (packed-ish) and keep beating until the whole thing smelled like childhood and burnt toast.
- Add the wet ingredients: Crack in 3 eggs, one by one. I forgot the fourth. It still held together. Pour in 1 tablespoon vanilla and swirl until: just mixed. Don’t overthink it.
- Incorporate the dry ingredientsScoop the flour mix into the wet mess slowly, unless you want a flour cloud. Stir until it looks like stubborn dough. Thick. Moody.
- Fold in the mix-ins: Toss in 4 cups rolled oats, ¾ cup chopped almonds, ½ cup pumpkin seeds, ½ cup sunflower seeds, and ¼ cup shredded coconut (I ran out). Instead of mango and papaya, I used a generous ½ cup chopped dates. They melted in like memory. Add a sprinkle of cinnamon, if you need warmth. I did.
- Shape the cookies: Use your hands. No measuring cup drama. Scoop what feels right — maybe a small handful for bite-sized rebellion, or bigger if the day calls for it. Flatten gently. No perfection here.
- Add the topping: If you didn’t eat them already, press banana chips on top. I forgot mine. The cookies survived.
- Bake the cookies: Tuck the trays in for about 22 minutes, give or take. You’ll know they’re ready when the edges brown and your kitchen smells like forgiveness. Or oats.
- Cool completely: Leave them on the sheet. Let them sigh into place. I ate one warm. One cold. One standing over the sink thinking about things I shouldn’t.