The recipe was one that I've adopted from camp - adopted and adapted because of my love affair with cinnamon. It is my general rule that nearly everything in the baking world can be enhanced with a sprinkling of this spice, and so nearly every recipe that passes through my fingers will be graced with an asterix, instructing a dash of the good old finely-ground.
The mixing-up of cookie dough is one of the most pleasant activities I can think of to do by one's self. Something about cracking an egg or two into a bowl and watching as it is folded into butter and sugar and flour has an almost hypnotic rhythm to it. And then, by the magic of simple chemistry, something wonderful emerges from the batter. Cookies, my dear friends, are so much more than the sum of their parts.
Half of the camp-sized batch made about seven dozen chewy, melty, delicious oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies. Some of them were gobbled up by my Dad on their way out of the oven, some by the rest of my family when the work day was through - but one dozen made its way down to Toronto, and the balance were shared between the men and women at the post office in Huntsville, and a summer friend currently out in Saskatchewan. Win-win-win-win.
It was a good day.
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