Raymond Chandler’s The Big Cookie

Detective Philip Marlowe deals with some dough

Cookie dough:
250g brown sugar
170g butter, softened
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
200g plain flour
1 teaspoon baking soda

Filling:
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons chopped pecans
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon salt

Method:
I needed a whisky. What I had was a table full of baking ingredients I didn’t like the look of.

I wasn’t going to stand for any trouble. I beat the sugar and butter together. Those two were asking to get creamed. Soon they began to turn pale. Their game was up and they knew it. I stopped beating and threw in the egg and vanilla.

I took out a separate bowl for the flour, baking soda and salt. I wanted them alone. I didn’t trust them.

The sugar and butter mix was starting to look shifty. Its number was up. I added it to the flour mix, stirring it in slowly in case it tried anything. Sure enough, the mixture turned stiff, like a croupier’s smile.

My stirring arm felt heavier than a broken heart. I covered up the dough mixture and put it in the refrigerator. I lit a Camel and waited for exactly one hour. When I opened the refrigerator again, the dough was cold but enticing, like a blonde with a sour expression.

When I said I needed dough, this wasn’t the kind of dough I had in mind. I had to make do. Before I knew it, I had spread a chopping board with flour and flattened out that dough like I had something against it. Maybe I did. I rolled it into a rectangle to show it I meant business.

I took out yet another bowl and tossed in the filling ingredients. I sprinkled the mixture over the dough and rolled it up. It was like rolling up a body inside a carpet. Suddenly, I had to get the dough out of my sight. I covered it in parchment paper and put it back in the refrigerator.

After two hours and another Camel, I was ready to finish the job. I hacked the dough into slices and spread the slices on a baking tray. They just looked at me, as implacable as a row of well-trained butlers.

I stuck the tray in the oven at 180 degrees. I left it there for ten minutes and went out to get some whisky. Baking was thirsty work, and I had a throat as dry as a Santa Ana desert wind.

When I got back, I opened the oven door. The cookies were waiting for me. They were ready, but so was I. I slung them onto a wire rack and left them to cool down. My work was done.

After all that, I wasn’t feeling so festive. I poured myself a glass of whisky and lit another Camel. They tasted better than any cookie ever would.