For love of the Chocolate Chip Cookie

I love my wife. I'm sure that that comes as no surprise to anyone. However, my wife loves someone else. Well, someTHING else. She loves........., Chocolate Chip Cookie. Being the person I am, secure and confident, I am not threatened by you Cookie. So, this week, I was on a mission. I actually wanted to improve the relationship between Cookie and my wife.

I'm a big believer in knowing your Love Language and the Love Language of your spouse, partner, husband wife, whatever. *Side note: If you've never read Love Languages or Love Languages for Children by Gary Chapman, they are great! I'm not too into his religious side, but the concept of the books is wonderful. ** Ok, back to Cookie.

So, in an earnest desire to improve this relationship between Cookie and my wife, I went in search of how to bake the perfect Chocolate Chip Cookie. In theory, this cookie is simple. However, everyone, I've found, and I mean EVERYONE, likes theirs different (I use the word THEIR correctly for you Connie). I like mine soft. Nope. Not a fan of the crunchy cookie. Not in the least. My wife, likes the Everest of Chocolate Chip Cookies; crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside. Off I went on my quest.

In my research, I found many things out. The reason the recipes for this Cookie tell you to use room temperature or softened butter, is solely to make it easier to mix. That's it. The only reason. To make the Cookie my wife loved and wanted, it was a much more labor intensive batch of love. Cold. Everything I read said to keep everything as cold as you possibly could for the entire process. Yes. The entire process. Into the kitchen I went.

As I said, in theory, the recipe for Cookie is simple. Flour, Sugars, oils, eggs, etc. I put together several things I found and began my special unique batch of Chocolate love (Stop snickering). I took a large glass bowl and put in my white bread flour, white whole wheat flour and other ingredients into it. Put that aside. I then took another large bowl with my sugar, brown sugar and real butter. Cold. Cold, hard, real. Butter. If you've ever worked with butter, you're going to have a real appreciation for this next part. Instead of using the mixer or anything like that, I thought it would be a good idea to cut the butter into my dry ingredients by hand (I said stop laughing). So, with bowl and ingredients in hand, I grabbed a strong fork and went to sit down on the couch.

Wife was there and we watched Four Christmases while I cut the butter into the sides of the bowl. I had taken three sticks (yes, it was a large batch) and cut them into pieces. One I left whole to see what worked better. At first, whole butter worked better because I could kind of lathe it off with the fork, but in the end, poor whole butter, he ended up in pieces like the rest. Cutting this butter into the dry mix and actually getting to the point where it was creamed, honestly; was a bitch. I probably sat there for about a half hour easy doing this. I now have forearms like Popeye might I add. **Side note: vanilla is widely considered as just a 'flavor enhancer'. I found this interesting and made a batch of cookies without it. A lot of people said they couldn't tell the difference. I beg to differ. I gladly added the vanilla to my creamed bowl of love.

After said creaming was complete, the mix went back into the refrigerator because everything had to stay cold through the entire process. Once it had chilled, I added the eggs. Imagine if you will, cold butter and sugar, and then add slimy eggs. Another interesting and somewhat difficult task in this relationship improving exercise. Regardless, it got done. At this point I did have to let the creamed mixture warm up a little because I had to mix it with my flour, salt etc. I didn't let it get to room temperature, so it was a little difficult, but once it was all mixed, it was a pretty nice Chocolate Chip Cookie base. **Side note, I NEVER use shortening in any recipe.

I was really happy to be done with the labor intensive part of this Cookie. I quickly added the chocolate chips and put it back into the refrigerator to get cold. My only mistake in this process was to not separate half of the mix and add nuts before re-chilling, but even that turned out to be alright. Ok. Standard across the board cooking times for Chocolate Chip Cookies seems to be between 9 and 11 minutes. 6 to 8 for a simpler, blander cookie. I decided to start at 9 and then do a minute by minute check. After two batches, I determined that my cookies were 10 minute cookies. Perfect. I usually taste as I'm baking or cooking, but I was so busy this night, and the process of the Cookie alone had been so time consuming, that I didn't. I just made batch after batch and removed them from their parchment paper backing to cool on my cut up Whole Foods paper bags.

With only one batch of mix remaining, at about 10 pm that night, I threw in the towel. I was exhausted and had to work the next day. I cleaned up, bagged and wrapped everything up (I'd also made pumpkin spice pecan bread and several versions of banana bread as I was sending much of the nights production to a friend in Afghanistan), and went to bed. I went to work the next day not even really thinking about Cookie. I was sure that Cookie and my wife were at home getting acquainted.

The day after that, I took a small baggy to work to let a couple of co-workers try them out. They said they were some of the best Chocolate Chip cookies they'd ever had. Hm. I didn't know about all that. I still hadn't tried one. Wife had said they were really good, but I was so tired at that point, that I didn't really think much of that either. I did tell my Cookie making story at work though lol. Finally, today, two days after making them, I had one. They were perfect.

Now, I'm not claiming that they're the best I've ever had, not by far, because I know some fabulous bakers/cooks, and I've had some good Cookies. When I say perfect, I mean that they were perfect for my wife. It was the perfect Cookie for her. They were crispy on the outside, but not hard, not over browned. They were soft and cake-like on the inside. For whatever reason, many of them actually retained the softness of the chocolate chips that they usually only keep while warm. They were pretty darned good. In that moment, it was all worth it. More then worth it.

Am I fostering a relationship between my wife and Cookie? Yes, definitely. I think that they make a good pair. Besides, if Cookie gets on my nerves, I just handle him by biting his head off. He usually doesn't bother me anymore after that. Unless I miss a workout ;)

Clarification

From some of the comments left on my last post, I feel I have to clarify a few things lol. I no longer work in patrol. I'm still in law enforcement, but now work warrants and an inside job. It's not out of the question that I might go back at some point in the future. However, Jen likes knowing that the worst injury I may get during the day, is a paper cut and I'm not a hemopheliac so there's no worry of dying there.

I've been out of patrol for about four years now. Once we decided that we wanted to get pregnant, and after some disagreements with how the political department I was with at the time conducted business, I got out. I actually got our of law enforcement altogether for about a year and a half. I missed it and Jen was the one who brought me the opportunity to get back in, in a safer environment and one where I could evaluate whether I wanted to continue in this career path or not. I love it, but at times your family suffers. At times, you suffer. And, at times, well, you get the idea.

The chapter I shared is from a book I've been writing for about 11 yrs now. This particular Thanksgiving was from 2003. I hope to share more chapters in the future, especially since some are really funny. And to Ang, I did work Thanksgiving this year :) Only, there were no bad guys chased, just put in jail. So, I hope that my post wasnt misleading in any way. I still do the difficult 24 hr a day job, only now, I do the inside stuff that people who've been in as long as I have, get to do :)

Thanking Angel

This is going to be a long post, so if you have the time, thank you for reading. I've been in law enforcement for a long time. One of the ways to deal with things that have haunted me over the years, is to write. I've been writing a couple of books for years. Here, for the first time, is a chapter. I felt it was a good time to share. It is unedited, so keep that in mind. Just a raw few pages, added to the stack :)

"2 Adam 75, respond to a shooting in progress at 375 Bonnie Brae. Report of shots fired and a possible victim down"

"2 Adam 75, we're en route and code 6" (on scene)

"It's Thanksgiving Day, aren't these people supposed to be eating turkey or something?"

"Come on, this is what we live for"

"Yeah, I know"

When the call came out, we were already so close that we heard the shots before the call came out. It sounded like ten shots, close, and we ended up being right around the corner. We saw several people coming out of their houses as we parked our car. I yelled at them to get back in their houses as I rounded the back of the patrol car. I opened the trunk and grabbed the large roll of yellow caution tape that rolled around the back of every patrol car like a bunch of doughnuts.

You could us caution tape for almost anything....its intended purpose, tying thing down or up, wrapping things, or people for that matter. It was like the duct tape of law enforcement. Winding the yellow tape around the end of the street to prevent any human or vehicular traffic, I heard my partner start to put out some details over the air. He had finished talking to an old man standing on the corner of the street who'd been out for a walk.

"2 Adam 75, have all units respond from the north. Suspects are four to five male Hispanics wearing......."

From where we were at, I could see him. Even though I was probably a hundred feet away, you could tell he was young. It was beautiful out; crystal clear, blue skies and the perfect temperature. Not a day to die, but a day to live.

He was in the middle of the street on his back. As I approached where he lay, I could see the brass bullet rounds scattered over the street. The sun was shining off of them like they were gold coins. Marking them and finding the rest would be easy. None for the boat man today.

Being careful not to step on any round or evidence, I stood over him. He really was young, probably a teenager. He had been struck twice in the head, once from the back of the head; once in the shoulder and two or three to the legs and chest. Blood pooled around his entire body and he'd lost a little brain matter. I knew right away that one of the bullets hit near his temple because his eyes were already going black and blue and swelling to the size of tennis balls. I noticed that he was still trying to breathe and this was when I heard the rescue ambulance responding. The scene had already been declared safe, so they were able to get to him quickly.

I turned to my left and saw a small group of people just outside of the address associated with the call, several young Hispanic men and an older couple. I immediately recognized one of the faces as an 18th Street gang member named Boxer. Boxer was a well established member of 18th Street and someone I actually got along with quite well. When I had first arrived at Rampart, he gave me a lot of 'education' on how things worked there. They weren't always pleasant learning experiences, but at times, they reminded me how to save my own life.

I approached the group cautiously and asked Boxer if he knew what went down. He said, without changing his expression, "That's my brother".

Although I'm sure she knew, hearing her son confirm that out loud sent his mother into a spiral of screaming and crying. I needed to talk to her, so I let the family spend a minute wrapping her up in their circle. I asked Boxer for permission to speak with her because gang members consider it polite to do so, and I needed as much information as possible. He didn't have a problem with it and told everyone else to go back into the house.

"Hola seniora, much lo siento"

"Gracias" she replied with a tear stained face that was aging before my eyes.

"Como se llamas?"

"Maria"

(In Spanish)..."Maria, what is your son's name?"

"Angel. His name is Angel".

Apparently Angel was doing his best to live up to his name. He was 16. A good student, and athlete. He had done things that in that area, were nearly impossible to do. He stayed out of the gangs. Boxer had tried to get him to join, but he was interested in school, sports, his friends. Once Boxer gave up on trying to get Angel to jump in, he focused on trying to keep him alive. Keeping him away from the gang life that enveloped his family.


Why was Angel outside today Maria? Where was he going?"

Tears, large and quiet, streamed down her face as she softly said, "I asked him to go to the store. We didn't have any canned cranberry sauce, and I wanted him to see if they had any". I was sure that this request would haunt her for the rest of her life. Angel had just made it past the middle of the street when four or five gang members came out of the awnings from across the street. They ran at him and began to shoot. He only had time to turn halfway before being gunned down. I was sure that the first shot was to the back. That would be when he fell.

I assured Maria that I would be with Angel for the remainder of the day and that I would let her know where the paramedics were taking him. I would see here there. I knew that the situation wouldn't be that simple. Boxer knew that the situation wasn't that simple. Word moves fast through an area like Rampart; through gang communities. It's a place where someone's always watching, listening. Always. Those bullets werent supposed to be riddling Angel's body. They were supposed to be tearing through Boxer's.

Even though two years separated their age, Angel and Boxer looked nearly identical. Anyone could have mistaken them, unless you knew that Angel had no tattoos. Boxer was covered in tattoos, from head to toe. The gang already knew that they hit the wrong person. The gang already knew that the wasnt dead. They already knew, that now they had to not only kill Boxer, but they had to make sure that his brother died. This is what made the situation complicated.

I would be with Angel all day. I would never leave his side, even with family present. If someone came to finish the job, I would kill them. THere would be so many Rampart officers at General hospital that you would think it was a convention. There to protect the family, the staff, prevent a gang fight in a place that was supposed to be a safe zone for the sick and injured. The other gang would try to find a way to get in. Try to get there, because it was easier. Everyone was in the same place. Everyone could die at once. So, my job was to stay with Angel. Ensuring that if his injuries didnt kill him, that nothing else would either.

I jumped into the back of the ambulance and sat next to Angel. I began to talk to him. I told him that I could hear him breathing and that I hoped he could hear me. I told him where were at, and where we were going. I told him not to die. He didnt. Not then. When we arrived at General hospital, we tore out of the back of the ambulance. Nurses and doctors flooded his limp body. Needles and plastic caps flew everywhere; people yelled orders about prepping a surgery room.

I was given a blue disposable paper gown to put on with paper boot covers and a paper hat. I had to tear a hole in it on the side to pull my gun through. Once dressed, I walked back over to Angel, although I'd never really taken my eyes off of him. They had him plugged into a million tubes and mobile monitors. I was amazed once we took off how everyone had their piece of equipment in check and moving in sync with the gurney. We moved quickly to the elevator and then to the top floor.

If you dont know anything about General hospital, USC medical center, it's a teaching hospital. At the top floor, the elevator doors opened, exposing a short open area to the right, with nowhere to go, just a wall. To the left was a long hallway with a security door about every 20 steps. We went through the first door and waited for it to lock before the second one opened. Through the second door and to the left was another door. It was open and you could tell that this was a room for surgery, but you would have thought it an ordinary bedroom door if you hadnt seen what was inside.

We all went through the door, albeit not too gracefully. No one paid too much attention to me. I was asked to stand in the corner like a child being punished. There were four or five doctors and nurses who had come with us on the elevator, and now, about eight med students. You could tell that they were all aching to get a look at the head woulnds and see what they could do. It was cold and calculated. Not physically cold. The room was very small for such an event and that we all fit was odd. The head neurosurgeon outlined the gun shot wound to the head in detail. As he began the repairs, he walked the students through everything he was doing, getting flushed looks of exultation whenever he allowed someone to assist.

Angel's face was barely recognizable now. Head wounds in general, whether by bat or gun shot, are nasty things. Your body responds with swelling, changing colors and incredible malformation. They didnt work on him very long, explaining that he was pretty much 'brain dead' upon arrival. They did what they could and gave him a 2% chance of any kind of recovery. How about a 98% chance of something?

I worked in the coldest of cold environments. You cant allow emotion to seep in at the wrong moment because during many situations, it will not let you do your job effectively. You deal with the 'feelings' later. I thought at that moment that these doctors must work in very much the same environment, because there in that room, Angel was something to be excited about; not a someone. I found myself bothered by this, and then surprised that I was bothered. I had already seen many many dead bodies, accidents, shootings, stabbings, alcoholic deaths and on an on. The boy on the table though, was good. He had been doing what everyone tried to get the kids in Rampart to do.

Twenty minutes later, we were on our way to the ICU. It was ominous when we got there. The lights were dim, it was very quiet and we were quickly escorted to a quiet back corner. There were so many monitors and tubes hooked up that Angel looked like he was in a human garage. The nurses and doctor's hooked him up, checked his vent, compared charts and then quietly retreated to the nurse's station in the center of it all.

Angel's family wasnt there yet, so I took a seat next to him. I looked a him, and, since no other coppers were around, I held his hand for a little while. I talked to him and tried to explain what was going on around him and what the noises were. I imagined that even in an unconscious state, it must be lonely if you're not sure what's going on. I'm sure I felt some attachment to this young man, because I hadnt seen my own son in about a year. He had been taken for a length of time by this father, who later went to jail over it, but that's another story for another time.

I thought a lot about Corey while I sat there looking at Angel. I felt fortunate that even though he wasnt with me at the time, he wasnt here. Like this. Like Angel. I had a moment, before getting to the ICU, when I felt that this child might pull through. Looking at him in that moment though, anyone would have known that he was already on his way to heaven. I continued to talk to him anyway, telling that his family was on their way and that I'd stay with him until they arrived. Even then, I wouldnt be far.

I later learned that the scene downstairs had been ugly. The family arrived at the hospital and of course, Boxer came with his 'set' (his group from 18th Street). They were goign to make sure if anyone showed up that things were 'handled'. As a unit, we obviously couldnt allow that to happen. It's difficult to put people into cuffs and take them away when they're grieiving, but sometimes, it keeps them from getting killed or hurt. The family was upset because they didnt want to be in the hospital without the 'protection' they'd grown used to.

The other gang members showed up, but never got out of their car. Once they saw the show of force there, they left. Luckily, someone got a license plate number and within hours, there were a few people in custody. I use the word 'people' loosely. Back to Angel though.....

I was with him from 7am Thanksgiving morning until 11pm that night, when he passed away. I was there when the nurses explained to the family that he was brain dead and what that meant. I was there when they made the decision to take him off of life support. I knew why I was there, but I still felt like I was intruding on something more then private. It took moments from the time the life support was disconnected. Like a movie, there was silence and then the mourning began.

Angel's mother kissed his swollen face and said prayers over his body, giving him back to God. I was glad at that moment to be in the shadows of a corner as two tears ran down my cheek. Sometimes, it's the hardest thing, to pull back the affect of other people's emotions. I felt intensely thankful to Angel for letting me spend his last day with him. I wish that it could have been under different circumstances, but we dont always get to choose those, do we?