A gray day today, on a number of fronts. I left the office halfway through with plans to work at home for the remainder of the day. After some effort toward this end (take your pick: my efforts were either perfunctory, desultory, or half-hearted), I finally found myself, late afternoon, in the kitchen.
I made a batch of Gingerdoodles, a cookie recipe I ran across recently in the back pages of a mystery book. (Think Snickerdoodles, with the addition of ginger to the exterior sugar mix.) The cookies turned out a bit flat, due perhaps to my perfunctory/desultory/half-hearted adherence to the instruction "beat until fluffy" early in the recipe. And, in my ongoing attempt to win the World's Most Absent-Minded Baker award, I may (or may not) have left out the vanilla. I'm also not convinced the addition of ginger brings that much more to the cookies, and I have to admit that the scent of so much ginger during the baking was almost too much for my olfactory preferences. In the Great Baking Scents category, I really don't think you can improve on cinnamon.
But some days, the act of warming the oven, mixing the ingredients, and having hope in the results can be, if not rudder enough, and if not anchor enough, then at least some rudder, and some anchor, and some of a little something else, small and tender, that slips just past the net of words.