A Bourgeois Trampoline and Mascarpone Jelly Thumbprints

Our strawberry picking was thwarted today because we woke up this morning to rain.  In other activities rain is not necessarily a problem; however, when it comes to standing in the mud while picking fruit, it can become a rather messy problem.  Several years ago while out picking raspberries after a lot of rain, my clogs were so caked with mud that I stepped right out of one of them and put my bare foot smack into the mud. I then had to turn around to look for my blasted shoe. 

This kind of thing is particularly a nuisance when you've got little people around you who are naturally prone to getting dirty, and you happen to be in charge of cleaning them up.  Although some of my sister's kids are much older now, so this isn't the problem it once was.  Nowadays my nieces and nephews listen to their i-pods and get told they are going to walk home if they end up too filthy to get back in the car.  However, Emilia still has a few years before I can make such feeble threats.

So anyway, as I went to get Emilia out of her bed this morning, flung open the drapes, and looked out at the grey drizzle before us, she immediately said, 'Want to go on trampoline!'  'Sorry Charlie, it's too wet today.  No bouncing on the trampoline when it's too wet.'  'Mama not say sorry Charlie!  Not sorry Charlie!'  And there you go, a glimmer of how our day has gone.

But, yes, it is true.  We have finally joined the ranks of the trampoline owners.  I know what you're thinking, 'well, la-di-da!  Aren't you so fancy!'  And I will completely agree with you.  When we were growing up it was all the rich kids who had trampolines.  We all looked at them so longingly, vowing that the very first moment we were grown up (and very rich), we would buy a trampoline and put it in our own backyards.  Michael laughs at me when I tell him this, and told me, as we were setting the trampoline up over the weekend, 'We're so bourgeois.'  In fact, when my sister got a trampoline at her house several years ago, I remember telling her 'I've never felt a chasm so great between us as I do right now.'  And then I refused to get off the thing.  Literally every time we went over to their house that summer I (after shamelessly kicking my nieces and nephews off) was on the trampoline — demonstrating my spectacular moves for everyone.

So when we finally joined the ranks of home-owners a while ago, what did my sister and brother-in-law get us as a house-warming gift?  A trampoline!  That's right.  And what did we proceed to do with it?  Why, we left it in the garage for five years, of course.  It is shameful, I know.  But we now have a little two-year-old who adores the very thought of jumping on anything bouncy.   So it would have been awful to leave such a thing in the garage a moment longer.  I just hope she doesn't let our new status symbol go to her head. 

Michael used to call my sister's trampoline a 'rickety ol' death-trap', to be precise.  And he would refuse to get on it — probably because he fancied himself to be too fancy for such things (mind boggling, isn't it? ).  Besides, he probably thought it would mess up his hairdo or something.  (This part is true — my hair is always a huge tangled mess after I've been jumping around.) 

Anyway, Saturday afternoon, immediately after the set-up was complete and I'd gotten Emilia down for her nap,  I looked out the back window and what did I see?  Yep, Michael was on the trampoline jumping around like an eejit.  Naturally I ran out of the house as fast as my feet would carry me to join him.  Bliss.  We jumped and jumped — and we impressed each other with our outrageous tricks and rather shocking level of skill.  Once Emilia woke up, she got on  and then refused to get off for dinner.  (Where does she learn such behavior?!)  I literally had to chase the girl around the thing.  Twerp.

And so, for the past couple of days, Michael and I have been walking around moaning and taking several ibuprofen, to boot.  Because as much fun as that thing is — we're old.  Seriously, we've both been ridiculously sore.  I suppose it doesn't help that last night, immediately after Emilia went to bed and the dinner dishes were done, we ran out there again.  Michael, in one of his impressive moves we're calling 'The Windmill', fell and started claiming that he slipped a disk.  Of course I started complaining about my spleen and such after that.  (What is a spleen anyway?  And can you injure one on a trampoline, I wonder?)  But not to worry, so far no slipped disks or ruptured spleens.  However, if we don't get a net on the thing fast, we may be singing a different tune.

After lunch today, as Emilia wandered around the wet backyard in her ladybug boots feeling rather put-upon because mama said no trampolining, she finally smiled a bit when I walked out and handed her a cookie.  I can promise that she would have happily relinquished the cookie for a few moments on the trampoline, but nothing doing.  Instead, we'll make our yummy cookies — that are really perfect for a summer day filled with rain.  (Although, I daresay they are also perfect for a day of sunshine, filled with homemade strawberry freezer jam.  That'll be tomorrow.) Thumbprints are a very cheery and kid-like kind of cookie.  Which I suppose is perfect for both Emilia and her (rather dignified) parents.

**Quick note on the cookies, the dough actually lasts in the fridge for several days, so you can easily use it as you need it.  Also, if you feel like living dangerously, it is nice to sometimes fill them with chocolate ganâche.  Just melt a bit of chocolate with a tablespoon of heavy cream, and there you go.              

Mascarpone Jelly Thumbprints
makes about 36 cookies

½ cup (1 Stick) unsalted butter, softened
1 ½ cups sugar
1 egg
½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract
½ cup mascarpone cheese
2 ¾ cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup seedless raspberry jam

Using your heavy-duty mixer, beat the butter until creamy and soft.  Add 1 cup of sugar and continue to beat until pale and fluffy.  Add the egg and vanilla, scraping the sides down with a rubber spatula, as needed.  Add the mascarpone and mix just until smooth.  This would work well with a hand-held mixer as well, but it is easier with your Kitchenaid.

In another bowl, combine all the dry ingredients: the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Add to the butter mixture and beat until a nice soft dough forms.  Wrap the dough tightly in a plastic wrap and toss in the fridge for 30 minutes. 

Preheat the oven to 325° F.  Divide the dough into 4 equal parts.  Working with one part, cut off a small amount of dough and roll it into a ball.  Then roll the ball in the remaining ½ cup of sugar.  Plonk on a lightly greased (or parchmented) baking sheet, and keep going.  I usually aim for a dozen per sheet.  Mario Batali then says to get a skewer and, using the blunt end, poke a deep hole in each cookie.  Turn the skewer around a few times, making the opening at the top wide.  I've tried this before and think it is silly.  Instead I use my finger (not my thumb) — press hard, wiggle it around a few, and there you go — no skewer nonsense required.

Bake the cookies for 12-15 minutes, or until they begin to turn a nice shade of pale gold around the edges.  Remove from the oven, gently poke a bit if the holes need re-defining, and let cool for a few minutes.  Remove to a wire wrack. 

Heat the jam slightly in a small saucepan.  Then using a small spoon, carefully fill each cookie.  After the cookies have set, they can be stored in an airtight container for a few days.  Just make sure to put a layer of wax paper in between the layers.  (Recipe from: The Babbo Cookbook by Mario Batali.  Clarkson Potter Publishers, 2002.)