The dog was barking at the wind again and I couldn’t find the lid to the sugar jar. That’s how it started. Not with a craving, not with a plan—just noise. And the fact that I had half a bag of chocolate chips left, a broken walnut bag twist-tied shut with one of Mae’s old hair ties, and a kind of emotional exhaustion that only cookies could talk to.
Her Highness calls them Kitchen Sink Cookies. Because you throw everything in. And somehow it holds.
What The Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is generous and unapologetic. The kind of cookie that doesn’t whisper “have one”—it thuds onto the plate and dares you to try and stop at two. Butter, two kinds of sugar, the usual dry suspects. Then the chaos crew: oats, coconut, raisins, chocolate chips, walnuts. No order, just volume.
And she does it with that steady, magazine-smile precision. Creams the butter. Sifts the flour. Gets 18 perfect mounds spaced 2 inches apart. The kind of cookie that pretends to be casual but has the posture of a ballerina.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t measure the coconut. It stuck to the side of the bag and I just… shook it in.
And I swapped the raisins for chopped dates because I’m still flinching from that time my ex put raisins in spaghetti and called it “Moroccan inspired.” It wasn’t. It was a crime.
Also—I used salted butter. Her Highness wouldn’t approve, but I was too tired to pretend I had unsalted in the fridge. I didn’t. I had what I had.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The butter was still too cold. I mashed it with the back of a fork until it gave in. Mae was on the phone in the next room, laughing that teenage laugh that used to be mine. I added the sugars, both of them, not caring about “firmly packed”—just enough to coat the butter in sweetness. The eggs went in sloppy. I forgot to crack them clean. One shell shard, maybe two. I picked them out best I could.
Flour clouded the counter when I stirred too hard. That green Pyrex bowl from college nearly tipped when I added the oats. Then came the chips. Then the nuts. Then the sound the spoon made when it hit resistance. I remember that sound from when Mae was little and I’d bake just to fill the silence between nap and meltdown. It’s a good sound. Heavy. Real.
I used my hands to form the scoops. Forgot to flatten them. They came out puffed and a little arrogant. I liked them more that way.
A Few Things I Learned
Don’t overthink the ratios. If it looks like it’ll hold together, it probably will.
The chocolate wins, even when it shouldn’t.
One bite made me sit down. Just to taste it without thinking.
What I Did With the Extras
Left them on the tray. Ate two standing up. Mae walked by, grabbed one, didn’t say anything. Just nodded.
I froze a few in a bag marked “Wednesday.” No idea why. It felt right.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah. On a loud day. Or a quiet one. They work either way.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The wind stopped.
The cookies cooled.
I didn’t feel better. But I felt full.
If you want something moodier, I made Her Highness’s oatmeal cookies during a thunderstorm once. they weren’t as loud as the sky, but close.
FAQs
You’re probably fine. these cookies forgive you. i’ve forgotten the coconut, subbed raisins for whatever was in the back of the drawer. they always still work.
Mae ate three and didn’t complain. that counts as a yes. but maybe skip the walnuts if your kid hates crunch.
Depends on your mood. on a sad day? perfect. on a regular thursday? maybe one less chocolate handful. or not.
Ha. they don’t. but if you’re hiding them, three days on the counter, maybe five if you forget them on top of the fridge like i did once.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Kitchen Sink Cookies
Description
Soft, full of noise, and better when you don’t try too hard.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the flour base: tossed flour, baking soda, powder, and salt into a mixing bowl. no sifting. didn’t feel like it. stirred with a fork. looked like sand right before rain.
- Cream the butter and sugars: butter was too cold. used the back of a spoon. it gave in eventually. added both sugars, mashed until smooth-ish. not perfect. just soft.
- Add eggs and vanilla: cracked the first egg clean. second one shattered weird. got the shell out, i think. stirred in vanilla without measuring. it smelled like december before everything went quiet.
- Build the dough: poured the flour mix into the butter mess in thirds. stirred like i was trying not to think. it got heavy fast. that good kind of heavy. like “this might hold me today.”
- Fold in the rest: dumped in oats, chips, coconut, dates, walnuts. used my hands. it stuck. smelled like a bake sale in a church basement. or like forgiveness, depending on the day.
- Shape the cookies: scooped mounds onto an old sheet pan. too close together. didn’t fix it. pressed a few down with a glass. forgot the rest. didn’t care.
- Bake until they breathe: 350° oven. 16 minutes. rotated halfway through. the smell hit at minute ten and i almost cried. pulled them when the edges browned and the tops still looked soft.
- Cool, sort of: left them on the tray. broke one by accident. ate it over the sink. mae walked by and stole one. didn’t say a word. just smiled with her mouth full.