In San Diego, there’s a great restaurant where “the kids” go to have what they affectionately term, “Pizookie Parties”. The kids are some of the students from the high school where I was formerly employed, and the “restaurant” is actually a brewery, so I’m hopeful that they’re really having parties filled with Pizookies and not something else.
You are, aren’t you, boys?
“What’s a Pizookie?” you ask. So glad you want to know. A Pizookie is a cross between a pizza and a cookie. It’s a pizza-cookie. It’s a Pizookie!
See how they did that? Clever, huh?
A Pizookie Party would include a trip to this particular location for the purpose of partaking of, um, the Pizookies. There’s no code.
Since I’m not in Kansas (San Diego) anymore, and since my punk nephew with the one-dimpled face had a birthday recently, I thought I’d make my own Pizookie Party for him.
And so we did. Only ours was Southern-style. Instead of fancy, metal, San Diego pans, we used small cast-iron skillets, just like the ones in which we make cornbread. Only smaller. The cookie skillets were about six inches across. The cornbread skillet’s about ten inches across. Oh, and my pineapple-upside-down-cake skillet (the same one I make chicken fried steak in) is about twelve inches across.
I just got hungry all of a sudden. Maybe my sugar’s low. That’s a problem best fixed with a cake ball, for which I’ve yet to acquire the appropriate cast-iron skillet. But I’m on the lookout.
Anywho, we had four of these little skillets, so we made four types of Pizookies.
Snickerdoodle. This is the one in which The Bubbe wanted his candles (above).
Peanut Butter. This is the one into which the Diva dug with all her might. Homegirl’s got mad Pizookie-eating skills.
Oatmeal Raisin. This one may or may not be my favorite, which may or may not explain why I zoomed in so closely with the camera. I may or may not have been taking this picture with one hand while simultaneously holding my spoon in the other, waiting to pounce.
Chocolate Chip. My father may or may not have eaten his weight in this one.
Therefore, we just ran right down to our neighborhood Kroger and bought cookie dough, pressed it in the skillets, stuck them in the oven at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes, and disposed of the evidence before anybody knew what was happening.
The Diva ain’t the only one with mad skills. She may or may not get them from her mother who may or may not get them from her mother.
I can neither confirm nor deny.
Besides, they got et (that’s eaten to you non-Southerners).
Dump a scoop of ice cream on the top of each of them, throw some spoons out, put the Pizookies in the middle of the table, and watch your fingers. It’s a feeding frenzy.
Great Whites on the idiot in the cage ain’t got nothin’ on people around Pizookies.
And, while it’s true that I was not able to find the time to make, from scratch, birthday Pizookies, rest assured, friends and gracious readers, that I did
find make the time to locate, purchase, transport, assemble, and test out the perfect birthday gift for a six-year-old boy.
My sister’s thanking me every chance she gets. She couldn’t possibly be more welcome. Payback for the make-up and nail polish she bought the Diva the year she turned three, before my sister had any children, is a killer.