Behold, the most expensive cookies in the world.
Every year when I was little, I would watch Dad make the Christmas Hermits. Even as a child I did much of the baking, but Hermits were Dad’s thing. His mother’s recipe, and probably her mother’s before that. Too heavy a mix for little arms, though just perfect for little hands to roll into a ball and flatten with the bottom of a glass.
And every three or four years, Dad has a fit of Christmas madness and makes the Hermits, knowing that Hershe will not let him eat very many of them. He makes them, eats a few, then sends the rest across the Atlantic to me.
Hard to know who is happiest: me or the post master general.
Molly seems to like them too.