Few people would set out to make moofies. I blundered into my first batch two weeks ago when I found myself with a bowl of cookie dough and no cookie sheet. (I’d tossed my ancient specimen weeks before and forgotten to replace it. It may be unnecessary to note that I don’t do a lot of baking.) I didn’t have time to dash off to the store; I had former students on their way over for a picnic. I repurposed muffin tins and voilà! The moofie was born. (Full credit for the clever name goes to Camilla Worsfold.)
While the word moofie has a satisfying lilt to it, moofies are clearly inferior to cookies. For one thing, a spatula isn’t designed to remove a moofie from its muffin tin, requiring the baker to a) use cooking spray before plopping in the batter and b) rely on careful extraction techniques once the moofies are done. For another thing, the chocolate chips stick to the bottom of the muffin tin, requiring extra cooling time and/or the baker’s willingness to eat melty chocolate remnants after each dozen moofies are extracted (fortunately, this baker had more than the requisite willingness).
Today I bought a new cookie sheet, happy to put my moofie experience behind me. I mixed up a bowl of my favorite dough, a recipe with enough oats, raisins and flaxseed to cancel out the butter and brown sugar involved, at least from a psychological perspective. I scooped out the first dozen cookies.
Cookie failure! The new cookie sheet was about an inch too long for my pint-sized oven. Fortunately, I was listening to an inspiring podcast by Tara Brach at the time, so instead of groaning I busted out laughing. Back to moofie making.
The more I think about it, the more moofies seem like the ideal treat, a delicious exercise in inefficiency. Sure cookies are quicker, but who wouldn’t be charmed by the moofie’s perfect round symmetry? Who could resist its pleasing moniker? And at the end of the day, which baked item makes for a better story?
I will not always live in this beautiful studio apartment with its quirky kitchen. In a year David and I will be married and living somewhere with full-sized appliances. We will eat meals at a real table instead of on a bed. My single life will swing shut like a door behind me, and nostalgia will wash a candlelit radiance over all the inconveniences – moofie moments, shall we call them? – of my current life.
I wash the muffin tin for the fifth time today (another downside to moofies – washing between batches is essential). I pour myself a cup of milk.