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By: The Editorial Staff
December 10, 2024
Student-journalists in both Intro to Journalism and Newspaper Production Studio were invited by Amy Bridge, editor and publisher of The Journal lifestyle magazine, to submit holiday food stories for competition to be included in the Holiday Issue of her magazine that covers northeast Pennsylvania, northwest New Jersey, and southern areas in New York state.
Joe Hamway, senior writing major, took home the grand prize about his mom's Pecan Tassie cookies and is published in the Holiday Issue. Congratulations Joe! The holiday food stories were so outstanding that additional winners were chosen to be published here in The Cyclone Chronicle. Congratulations to Will Boothe, senior communication major; Amanda Masiello, senior writing major; and Tanner Sullivan, junior communication major for their entertaining stories about cookies and mischief and mishaps in the kitchen. We hope you enjoy!
Joe Hamway
Senior Writing Major, History Minor
That scent of butter and sugar, toasted pecans, and the delicate dusting of powdered sugar in the air signaled the arrival of Christmas in our house. Was it the traditional music? Or the decorations around town that told me the holidays had begun? No—it was the smell of my mother’s pecan tassies baking in the oven.
Tucked away in the small hamlet of Long Valley, where I grew up and still live, winters felt like something out of a snow globe or painting. You could see icicles hung from tree branches, ponds freezing over, and Schooley’s Mountain blanketed in a layer of soft, untouched snow. At home, though, it was warm, thanks in part to my mother, Cora, who was toiling in the kitchen. My mother, the daughter of two Italian immigrants, has always brought a love of food into every room she enters. She really believes in the magic of cooking—the way it can bring people together, wrap them in a sense of comfort, and somehow make the world seem kinder. She has an undeniable passion for it. And during the holidays, the kitchen became the heartbeat of our home.
Mom’s pecan tassies were legendary in our family and beyond. Little bites of heaven, these buttery, bite-sized tarts crammed with pecan filling were the kind of treat that could transport you with just one taste. Friends, neighbors, and even teachers at school looked forward to the small tins of them that my older brother and I handed out every year. They were the first sign that Christmas had arrived, a harbinger of warmth, joy, and indulgence.
Those cookies felt like a ritual, a tradition that felt as old as the holiday itself. I can still envision my mother standing at the counter, her apron dusted with flour, rolling out the dough with practiced hands. Each one was made with care, the dough pinched into perfect little cups before being filled with a sweet, nutty mixture of pecans, brown sugar, and butter. The smell of those pecans toasting in the oven was enchanting. I can still smell it now. That fragrance filled the house, lingering long after the last batch had been pulled out from the oven.
My favorite part, though, was the powdered sugar! After the bites had cooled just enough, my mom would sift a cloud of powdered sugar over each one—like light snowfall, a flurry that seemed to glow in the soft light of our kitchen. That kitchen has since been remodeled—walls repainted, appliances rearranged, and the old oven replaced. It's interesting to think about, but the room is still here, just in a new form. I would stand beside her, eyes wide, watching the sugar fall, knowing that soon I might be able to sneak one in before they were packed away onto the plates or trays she prepared for family gatherings.
The taste of those pastries was like nothing else. The pastry was soft and crumbly, melting in your mouth almost instantly, while the pecan filling gave off this rich, buttery sweetness that was perfectly balanced by the subtle crunch of the nuts. And the powdered sugar—it stuck to your lips. They were so rich; you’d think one or two would be enough. But that was never the case. Everyone always reached for another, and another.
Back then, when I was a kid, the snacks felt like the pinnacle of the Yuletide season. They embodied everything Christmas was supposed to be—warm, inviting, and full of love. And though my mom made plenty of other holiday treats—gingerbread cookies, pignoli cookies, and toffee barks—it was those pecan delectables that held a special place in literally everyone’s hearts. There was something magical about them–something that made them feel that they are meant for a special occasion, even though the ingredients were simple, maybe because they’re my mom’s favorite to make!
As the years have gone on, I’ve noticed that my mom doesn’t make the desserts quite as often as she used to… Maybe it’s the passage of time, or maybe it’s just that life moves faster than it once did. But sometimes, every now and then, when the holidays roll around, she’ll make a batch, just for old times’ sake. And every time I bite into one, I’m shot back to those innocent Christmases in Long Valley—pacing in our kitchen, watching my mother work her magic.
It’s always really interesting to watch my mom work effortlessly in the kitchen, especially around the holidays. It gives me this behind-the-scenes look into her childlike wonder and the joy she finds in cooking, a true passion of hers. As a kid, I vividly remember tearing open presents, playing with toys and video games, lost in the magic of the season. I would then see my mother’s joy come alive through her holiday cooking, with family gathering around the table. She always looked forward to presenting food, and feeding people.
I knew my mom had a really tough upbringing, dealing with a lot of pressure as the youngest and only daughter in her family. I’ve found that very inspiring as she always follows her heart, fights for what she wants, and she never let anything stop her from growing into the woman she’s become. It’s amazing to taste and feel her passion translated into something as simple as the Christmas cookies she makes. When I was growing up, I definitely don’t think I fully appreciated and absorbed the power and love in my mom’s cooking, but now I realize it’s a part of our history. I hope I will uncover the cooking genes as I grow older!
So, even now, when I see a pecan tassie, I’m instantly hit with a flashback of these memories. The mini pies somehow symbolize a branch of my childhood, mom’s love, and of the joy that only Christmastime can bring. My mom’s baking reminds me that, even as life changes, the important things—like family, tradition, and the simple pleasures of some homemade cookies—remain the same.
As long as there’s a plate of pecan tassies on the kitchen counter, I know that Christmas has truly come
Will Boothe
Senior Communication Major
It was one of the coldest days of the year, with no snow on the ground at all. Already having developed the winter blues because of the lack of snow, I know there were only two weeks left until Christmas. Looking out the living room window, many trees across the street were covered with colorful lights. When my sister, Caroline, and I thought about what to do, she came up with the idea of making homemade chocolate chip cookies.
“Hey, Will. I’m thinking about making chocolate chip cookies,” said Caroline. “Would you like to help me?”
Bringing chocolaty goodness around the house instantly grabbed my attention, so I offered to help her to turn my day in the dumps upside down.
“Sure,” I replied. “We should come up with a plan to make our cookies taste better than the ones from the grocery store.”
As we cheerfully walked towards the kitchen, we carefully planned out our recipe. Our mission to make our best cookies required brown sugar, flour, water, two beaten eggs, and the irresistible chocolate chips. As the spine-chilling wind continued to blast the outdoor environment all day, my sister and I were hard at work preparing our new, tasty addition to our winter spirit.
“While I prepare the cookie dough, could you please set the oven temperature?” I asked.
“A cooking expert’s gotta do what a cooking expert’s gotta do,” Caroline said.
As I mixed the ingredients, I had the overwhelming urge to eat the finished cookie dough. It was impossible to resist getting my hands on our cookies, but the reward was worth the wait. I knew that when our cookie making progress needed to be done, one major misstep could ruin the batch.
When the cookie dough was ready for action, my sister carried over a tray plastered with the unstoppable tin foil. After we organized the tempting-to-consume cookie dough into cylinder-like chunks, the two of us were ready to let the oven bring us the hot air of our delicious height. As my sister and I waited for minutes to consume our cookies, we imagined the delight of eating them for the first time. We walked to the living room and began watching Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings to maintain our patience.
The oven soon went off with its intense beeping after ten minutes, giving us the heads up that the cookies were ready for action. As the air of baking power sweeped the kitchen, my sister and I rushed over to the kitchen oven, practically stubbing our toes. I silently congratulated myself for focusing on the present moment. My annoyance over the lack of snow gradually became replaced with the preparation of consuming our well-baked cookies.
The kitchen became engulfed in heat coming from the oven, as my sister pulled out the cookie tray. As I looked at the finished cookies, my focus turned to the warmth of being together. What better way to end the cookie baking process than by watching the cookies slowly cool down with her. The anticipation of melted goodness in our mouths increased.
Even though some of the cookies looked overcooked, all I could think about was eating them anyway. As I walked my way towards the cookies, I knew something great was going to happen.
“Some of these cookies might be hot,” warned Caroline.
After my sister and I carefully grabbed piles of our chocolate chip cookies onto our glass plates, we walked back to the living room and began eating them. As I ate my pile of our well planned-out holiday treats, I watched my yard becoming covered with lots of white speckles. I imagined the unexpected snowfall covering the ground adding more cheer to the holiday spirit. As we continued to plunge through our movie, we saw the outdoor lights shine like stars in the sky and snow plowers drift through our neighborhood.
After we finished watching our movie, my sister and I placed the piles of cookies we did not eat yet, inside a plastic bin. I thanked my sister for bringing our anticipated holiday spirit plan to life.
“We should make these cookies again,” I said. “I had a lot of fun helping out.”
“I’m glad you liked my idea,” Caroline replied. “We should make them again next year.”
Little did I know that making chocolate chip cookies with my sister was only a one-time occurrence. My sister and I imagined the kitchen slowly fading to eternal darkness when we ate the final few cookies left. It was time to say goodbye to the warmth of not only the cookies, but the idea of being together for the holidays. We will miss her like the trees miss their leaves once winter comes.
I glanced at the living room window again, only to see the outdoor lights beginning to wear out and struggle to remain well lit. Before I could say anything, an intense gust of wind swept through my yard and swiftly blew the lights off the trees. Much of the snow attached to our windows, making it harder for us to effortlessly look outside. The white speckles dumped into the yard, making what once was grass a white blanket. The white speckles covered our neighborhood with no way to get off the driveways. I viewed the snowfall as the cure for my winter blues.
Every winter holiday after this felt colder and colder. My sister moved away and the warmth of baking together has vanished. As the winter season continued, I imagined the snow as a reminder that my sister was still here with me. My sister and I grew up spending time together during the winter season. Without her, I needed to feel the brisk cold of winter on my own.
Before I could move on, I kept thinking about the warmth of my sister and I making chocolate chip cookies together. Thus, I began to feel mentally and emotionally challenged. One day, I called my sister to tell her how her move out caused me to feel lonely.
“Spending the winter holidays hasn't been the same since you moved away,” I explained with disappointment. “All I could think about was spending them together when you were around.”
“I feel the same way,” my sister trembled. “I wish I didn’t move away.”
Over the next couple of weeks, I looked out my yard to see if the grass was still coated with white speckles. I began to worry that when the grass emerged from its snow-covered burial, the remaining happiness I had left would disappear forever.
“How could I move on from this new change?” I asked myself in an iffy. “I better know that everyone needs to move on.”
It suddenly occurred to me that I should be thankful for the time I spent with my sister and accept her move out. To regain my happiness over the winter season, I spent days playing in the snow and making chocolate chip cookies by myself. I also stayed in touch with my sister to keep talking about my everyday activities.
As much fun as my sister and I had baking chocolate chip cookies together during this one-time occurrence, we would never make them again. With no future plans to make chocolate chip cookies together, our holiday spirit collapsed into pieces, bringing in the true cold of winter.
Amanda Masiello
Senior Writing Major
If Italians were famous for only one thing, aside from constantly reminding you of their heritage, it would be cooking. Every culture has its signature dishes, but Italy has always treated food as a foundational pillar of society. Cuisine is practically worshiped, and other cultures have taken notice. Does anyone remember Nintendo’s interpretation of Italy in the form of the famed wrestler Pizza Pasta?
This is to say that cooking is the crux of Italian culture. So what would happen if you met an Italian who couldn’t cook? “Impossible!” You might say. “How does someone born and raised in an environment that prioritizes food be bad at cooking?” Well, introduce me: the Italian who couldn’t cook.
Growing up, my Italian-extraordinaire father was a fantastic cook. Homemade pasta, pizza, tortellini soup, gorgonzola gnocchi, bolognese, penne alla vodka, fettuccine alfredo, and even ricetta trippa alla Fiorentina. Every day concluded with an Italian delicacy lovingly crafted following my great Nana Louise’s recipes. Nana Louise was renowned in my family for many reasons— aside from her sharp wit and acquired sense of humor, she was an incredible cook.
My parents found it only fitting that they named me after her to honor her memory. While I never got to meet her, her spirit is always with me. I am told she and I have a similar sense of humor, which I must have inherited from her in taking her name. Unfortunately for me, her superior cooking skills completely skipped me.
As a teenager, I started helping my family prepare for feasts, whether it was Thanksgiving, Christmas, a birthday, or any excuse to cook copious amounts of food; my duty as the youngest was to aid the elders in their cooking ventures. My Nana Johanna was my head chef, and I, her lowly sous chef. Well—calling myself a sous chef was a bit generous.
Before this, I was never properly taught how to cook. My father, while a great cook, was a terrible teacher. He was very impatient with me; lessons often involved a lot of yelling, holes in walls, and ruined ingredients. Here, my father excellently demonstrates another staple of Italian culture: yelling for no discernable reason. I couldn’t ask my mom for help either. She was absent most of my life, and the only thing she was able to teach me was the lasting effects of mommy issues, but I’m getting sidetracked.
Nana Johanna was a home-ec teacher back in the day, so she was a much better-suited educator than her son would ever be. I started my cooking misadventures with her in that little cottage in the village of Verona. Beginning every year after I turned 13, I was tasked with baking my father’s birthday cake, a one-of-a-kind depression cake recipe crafted by Great Nana Louise.
I know I’m slightly biased, but this cake is truly legendary. Despite being a depression cake, it is not dry or dense. It’s a double-layered chocolate cake with a chocolate pudding filling and an icing made with sour cream. It may sound strange, but trust me, it is incredible. That sweet taste with a tinge of sourness is unlike any other.
The pudding was the most challenging part, so my Nana handled that while I was in charge of the icing. Given that sour cream is the primary ingredient, exact measurements were crucial not to overwhelm the chocolate aspect of the icing; otherwise, you’d end up with a sour cake, and nothing is sadder than a sour cake. Unfortunately for everyone, I couldn’t read at this age, so following a recipe was usually left up to guesstimates. I lied to my Nana about being able to read the recipe. Why? Because I was 13 years old and I knew everything!
I poured WAY too much sour cream into the batch, to the point where the normally dusty brown coloring of the icing looked a little whiter than usual. Anyway, we finished the pudding, baked the cake, and started to assemble and lather it up with icing. Nearly three hours after we started, my Nana realized something. “This icing tastes…funny.”
My terrible mistake was uncovered, and while my Nana was too nice to shame me for it, I made sure to give myself a proper mental lashing for my transgressions against not only my Great Nana but the entire human race because God was that icing gross! My Nana started a new batch of icing while I scraped off the offensive coating. One re-iced cake later, and nobody was wiser to what had happened! However, my father admitted that the cake was sourer than usual.
But just like a certain infomercial, I wasn’t done yet because there’s more! My next major cooking escapade happened when I was around nineteen years old. I could finally read by this point, but sadly, I was still a lost cause in the kitchen. By this time, I had burned my fair share of eggs, water, and pasta, nearly setting the kitchen on fire while attempting to heat a microwave meal. All my dishes came with a distinct smokey taste that only comes with inexperienced cooks and people who don’t know the difference between Fahrenheit and Celsius. In this case, I was both.
For our family’s annual Christmas party, I was tasked with baking knot cookies for our guests. Knot cookies are a traditional Italian dessert made from cookie dough/cake batter tied into knots, then coated with a lemon glaze and dotted with sprinkles. An extremely simple dish even amateurs can manage. But I was no amateur; I was an idiot.
Given my previous track record, my father handled all the measurements while I put everything together. Here, I will introduce you to my most hated enemy in the kitchen: eggs. I hate eggs with a passion rivaled only by my disdain for Route 80 commuters. Eating-wise, I love eggs; they are a staple of every breakfast for a reason. But when it comes to cooking with them, it’s like pulling teeth.
Every time, no matter how carefully I crack an egg, it always ends with more shells in the bowl than yoke. Normally, while making eggs, I spend 20-30 minutes picking out broken shells before cooking anything. However, this becomes harder for knot cookies because you have to add the eggs into the dough while mixing so they don’t get too dry. Picking out a broken shell afterwards is near impossible due to all the ingredients hiding the offenders. So, I just cracked and prayed to whatever God may show pity on me that this batch would be mostly gooey egg insides.
But just like my prayers asking to become taller, they were ignored. After the baking part was finished and it was time to start tying the dough into knots, I felt something sharp pinch my fingers. It was an eggshell. A lot of eggshells. A giant smorgasbord of eggshells! It was at this moment that I knew I really messed up.
Two hours after stretching out dough and meticulously picking egg shells free, I thought I had removed most of them. So I finished tying them, iced and sprinkled them, and they were finished. To celebrate this hard-earned victory, I sampled one, and to my horror, I had stabbed the roof of my mouth with an eggshell. The pain paled in comparison to my humiliation. I can only hope that Great Nana Louise was laughing at me and not angry with me for my blatant disregard for basic cooking skills.
When Christmas came around, I hid the cookies as best I could so as few people would see them as possible. I needed to protect my aunts, uncles, and cousins from my unholy wrath. I could only hope that the guests who did have them got the cookies with no shells. The only witness to my grievous sin was my cousin Raroo, something he likes to tease me about whenever cooking is involved in a conversation. I love and hate you so much.
I found that I am much better suited in the kitchen as a severe health hazard than a chef. Despite this, my family has always been very supportive of my attempts, even if they end up sour, shelled, or any other potential mess up because there is one other aspect of Italian families that I didn’t mention… Endless love and acceptance, even if you don’t feel you deserve it.
Tanner Sullivan
Junior Communication Major
‘Twas the night before Christmas, amid the winter storm, I was getting ready for memories to be born. The snow had been frolicking outdoors for the whole day, going on its eighth hour, as the driveway became covered by a mattress of white flurries. As I marveled at the beauty of the environment, I sat in front of the fire in my warmest pajamas, while my golden retriever hopped on the couch for her third nap of the day. I basked at the fact that my most anticipated day of the year was almost among us. As I warmed up like a marshmallow in hot cocoa, I smelled a vibrancy from the kitchen: none other than my mother’s baking.
Every holiday, she always bakes a barrage of different cookies for our extended family. She makes so many that they often last us until Easter. While wafting in the beauty of the aroma of cinnamon and citrus from her latest batch, I decided that I wanted to do something different that Christmas: I wanted to bake something myself. I had been my mother’s sous chef on multiple occasions, but I wanted to build on my skills.
However, this raised the question of what exactly I would bake, especially with my lack of experience in baking on my own. Suddenly, a light bulb illuminated. I thought to myself, I could make the same treats that I always gifted Santa with before he flew off on his sleigh: the classic chocolate chip cookie. This simple-yet-effective treat had been a mainstay in my house for as long as I can remember and was a favorite of my father. With the man in the red suit coming to visit in a few hours, I wanted to be prepared. Once my mother called a break, I hopped into the kitchen, grabbed a whisk and bowl, and got to work. After gathering all the ingredients and noticing a recipe on the bag of chocolate chips, I got to work.
Immediately, I started making a mess of our counter by crowding it with what felt like thousands of baking supplies, and I easily lost track of where everything was. Nonetheless, I tried to follow the recipe to the letter, often heading to my parents in the other room to make sure I was following the steps correctly. After a tiring 30 minutes of measuring, mixing, and covering our counter with flour, the dough was finally ready. The dough itself was tempting to eat on its own, to the point where I even stole a few bites for myself. I eventually restrained myself to prevent myself from ending up on the naughty list.
I started scooping little balls of dough onto a baking sheet, getting a helpful workout for my right arm in the process. After almost an hour, I was finally ready to put my efforts to the test. I opened the preheated oven, felt a slight blast of scorched air on my arm, and into the hotbox these nuggets of chocolate and gold went. Next came the hardest part of the process: waiting. As I went to join my family in watching some Christmas movies, I was taunted by the smell of cocoa from the kitchen. Every time I went back to the oven to see how the cookies were doing, they continuously looked better and better. After an eternity of waiting, I hopped out of my seat and pranced to the oven one last time to check up, when I noticed the timer. 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… The oven timer screeched, celebrating that the chocolatey treats were finally ready. I sported an oven mitt, felt another blast of scorched air, grabbed the tray, and placed it onto the stove top.
The cookies had melted from their original form, into mini crisp pancakes encased with chunks of chocolate throughout. For the sake of not burning my mouth and losing my taste buds for a week, I let these pockets of goodness cool for a few more minutes. I joined my dog on the sofa as the snow flurried on and the fire crackled and smoked. The taste test could not come soon enough. Eventually, the moment of truth came.
At this rate, I was ecstatic to finally try these cookies, but there was a slight anxious feeling lingering in my mind: what if they don’t turn out good? What if they’re too dense? Underbaked? Overbaked? Would my efforts be worth it? I did my best to not let this anxiety take over my brain and focused on the enthusiasm of what I just did.
I grabbed a cookie from the cooling rack, still steaming after minutes out of the oven. It felt crisp yet delicate, like one incorrect movement would make it break in two in my hand. I wafted in the smell one more time and went in for a bite. In that moment, all feelings of anxiety completely vanished as I basked at the edible perfection in my hand. With a crispy exterior, tender inside, and melty chocolate scattered throughout, I was left with an elite batch of cookies.
My face lit up brighter than the fire in the other room, smiling from ear to ear over how fantastic the result was. I snatched paper plates and napkins out of the pantry, put a cookie on each one, and skipped to the family room, where I bestowed upon my parents a gooey, chocolatey gift. My baking-experienced mother and equally excited father took their own bites, before their faces glowed like mine. I knew that this was the dessert that would secure my spot on the nice list.
That night, as the snow left a winter wonderland in its wake, I hugged my parents good night before heading to the kitchen. I sneaked three of my cookies onto a plate and poured a glass of milk fresh from the fridge, leaving them on the dining room table in front of the fireplace’s crackling flames, before climbing into bed and wrapping myself up with my blanket.
Hours passed, but I had trouble falling asleep because of my excitement for the next day. Being the curious sneaker that I was, I tiptoed out of my room and down the stairs to take a gaze at our Christmas tree, which lit up the night with colorful lights surrounded by a sea of wrapping paper. As I headed back upstairs, I peeked at the dining room, which saw a brief chill after the fireplace had retired for the night. I noticed a crumb-less plate on the dining room table next to a foggy glass. As jingle bells rang in my head and I felt cool air on my face, the ear-to-ear grin returned as I snuck back to my room.
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