Minny's Chocolate Pie for Mary

Like so many others, I contributed towards making The Help a bestselling book. So, it was with great anticipation that I paid my $13.50 to see the film adaptation shortly after it hit the big screen. The movie does not disappoint. It’s a graceful translation of a story from one medium to another, something that is not very often done well, and I cried as hard as the credits rolled as I had when I turned the last page.
I am a sucker for sentimentality and I’m sure there are critics and purists who would take issue with the swells of music or the lingering shots over the stoic, privately wounded expression of Viola Davis. To them I say, “Be quiet.” If something moves and reaches you, does it really matter if it isn’t the highest of art?
Despite depicting the inhumanity of the Jim Crow South, the movie is ultimately “feel-good”—the main character gets to realize her dream and the Jackson, Mississippi housekeepers whose lives she chronicles are brave enough to participate in the Civil Rights movement that will change their world and ours forever. You walk out full of righteous indignation thinking, “How is it possible that segregation existed? Why was racism acceptable?” And, “Thank goodness that time has passed.”

But has it?

Until second grade I attended a very progressive, heavily diverse grade school. I don’t remember learning to read, write or add but I do remember learning about Dr. King and our teachers, Peter and Lenore, leading us in the various spirituals and folk songs that became anthems of the era, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” “Let My People Go,” and “We Are Marching to Pretoria.” (Which I confused with ‘Peoria’ and could never figure out what Illinois had to do with South Africa but was too embarrassed to ask). We also went to the movies a lot and the Friday we saw Sounder was totally devastating to me. Again, dealing with the injustice of the pre-Civil Rights South, I was so shaken by the film I had nightmares for weeks. Luckily a few months later a friend’s mother took us to a taping of The $10,000 Pyramid when one of the film’s stars, Cicely Tyson, was a celebrity contestant. Seeing she had swapped her sharecropper’s rags for something gorgeous and glam was very reassuring and I was able to move on with my childhood.

In those days my family had a housekeeper named Mary Otey. Mary was sweet and fat and from Norfolk, Virginia. I never knew her age but she was older than my parents and younger than my grandparents. She had a ton of mostly grown children and entertained me with stories of her son Sonny’s exploits (I loved that her son was named Sonny) or daughter Deborah’s achievements in school. Mary wore her hair like the Peanuts’ Lucy in the winter and Violet in the summer. Unlike The Help’s wig-wearing Aibileen, Mary’s hair was real, although her teeth were not, something I learned when she came to Connecticut with us in August and I saw her full set of dentures in a cup by the sink in her bathroom one night. But when she first started to work for my parents she didn’t sleep over and on the evenings when my mom would ask her to babysit, she would put us to bed and then sit in a stiff–backed, wooden chair in the dining room, reading the Bible or just dozing off. I remember suggesting she sit on the couch in the living room or watch our only TV in my parents’ bedroom. I knew Mom and Dad would want her to be comfortable. She looked at me like I was nuts and just shook her head no.

On one of those babysitting nights she was eating her dinner, a favorite concoction of spaghetti, ketchup and a hard-boiled egg, and I was talking to her at the kitchen table. I was learning about Pharoah and the enslavement of the Jews in Sunday school and I had a great idea I thought I should share with her; if all the Jewish people and all the black people worked together we could end discrimination completely! She indulgently nodded in agreement and went back to twirling her pasta. Thinking about that now, I am mortified. What must she have thought that this seven year-old living a comfortable life on the Upper West Side was suggesting anything to a black woman who had grown up in the segregated South? Who was I to draw a parallel of any kind?

Walking out of the movie last week of course I was thinking about Mary and about food. I was starving, and much of the film involves cooking. Passing Magnolia Bakery on my way home I spotted a pink layer cake on a stand and was reminded of the strawberry birthday cake Mary made for her daughter that I wasn’t allowed to touch. And I thought of Minny’s infamous chocolate pie in The Help. The pie plays a key role in the film, a plot spoiler I will not give away. Last month’s Food and Wine had a big piece on the food in the film and provided a recipe for the pie, which of course I had to try. (For those of you familiar with the story don't worry, Minny's special touch is omitted.)
When I was gathering my ingredients I noticed a front page story on the cover of the Times I had just brought in my apartment and thrown on the counter. Kim Severson reported on the investigation into the horrific death of James Craig Anderson, “a middle-aged black family man with a quick wit and a demanding sense of style.” Deryl Dedmon, a white teenager, has been charged with the crime and could be facing the death penalty. The FBI has been brought in and questions surrounding the motivation for the killing are being explored. My heart sunk. The crime occurred in Jackson, Mississippi.

So, while you’re eating this rich, brownie meets fudge pie—so sweet and chocolatey and only complete when topped with freshly whipped cream—take a minute to think about the Aibileens, Minnys and Marys you might know. Maybe they were your grandmothers or aunts, housekeepers or friends. And think about how far we’ve come and how far we have to go in our march to Peoria.

Minny's Chocolate Pie for Mary
From Food & Wine, August 2011
1 packaged pie dough crust, such as Pillsbury
1 1/2 cups sugar
3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
2 large eggs, beaten
3/4 cup evaporated milk
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
Whipped cream, for serving

Preheat the oven to 350°. Ease the pie crust into a 9-inch pie plate and crimp the edges decoratively. Prick the crust lightly with a fork.

Line the crust with foil or parchment paper and fill with pie weights or dried beans.
Bake for 15 minutes or until set. Remove the foil and weights and bake for about 5 minutes longer, just until the crust is dry but not browned.
Meanwhile, in a bowl, whisk the sugar with the cocoa powder, butter, eggs, evaporated milk, vanilla and salt until smooth.
Pour the filling into the pie shell and bake for about 45 minutes, until the filling is set around the edges but a little jiggly in the center. Cover the crust with strips of foil halfway through baking. Transfer the pie to a rack and let cool completely before cutting into wedges. Serve with whipped cream.
Yield: 8 slices


Who Asked You? Coffee Blond Brownies

Awhile back there was an essay in the Times that has stuck in my craw ever since. (I actually don’t know what a craw is, but I like the sound of it.) The author was bemoaning the results of the extensive nips, tucks, and injections sought by women to stave off the signs of aging—the inability to move the muscles required to convey emotion, the loss of characteristics that made them them etc. All concerns I can understand. No one looks good wearing a mask of her own face. But the piece also raised the question of how someone should respond if one’s friend has crossed the line from the use of subtle fillers and changes to “the danger zone.” “How do you warn her without offense? And if her friends don’t, who will?” Although the author’s only suggestion was to remind the youth-seeker of her inherent, natural fabulousness, my issue was really, why is it anyone’s business to tell someone else what she should do with her appearance? Ostensibly, if the woman is taking these measures, she is doing so because she wants to. As for anyone else’s opinion, I’d like to say, “Who asked you?”
In an age when anonymous on-line comments allow bullies to trash-talk whomever they want without taking any sort of responsibility, it isn’t surprising that people think expressing their opinions, no matter how inappropriate, is warranted. At the same time, with so many of us putting our lives out there for all to see, in a sense I can understand the argument that if you’re opening your mouth on-line you’re asking for feedback. Even if all you really want is to express yourself and hope everyone else agrees with you and if they don’t, please be quiet. That’s how I feel about life in general. I know there are those who get a charge from lively debate and being challenged. I hate it.
But appearance is a whole other thing. I had a friend who once got a drastic haircut I didn’t like. This was not one of those cases where you get a desperate phone call from a pal crying on a street corner after a horrible salon experience. She liked her hair. And who was I to disagree? I kept my mouth shut for the many years during which she maintained what I thought was an unflattering style. She was a grown woman. It wasn’t up to me to remind her of her fabulousness in the hopes that she would grow out her mane. Back to the idea that everything you need in life you learn in kindergarten, I think we all need to remind ourselves, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

Like everything else, there is an exception to this rule; that would be when someone solicits your opinion. Then all bets are off, but the gloves should stay on. For example, if your friend asks, “Do you like my new skirt?” and you think it is way too short you might suggest, “Yes, but I think pairing it with dark tights would be the best way to go.” Not, “You look like a cheap hooker and I can see your cellulite.” Save those kind of remarks for when you are commenting anonymously on a photo you’ve studied of a celebrity who shouldn’t be wearing a bikini on TMZ. And just in case you’ve forgotten, I want to make sure everyone knows that there is one question that should never be answered honestly if the answer in your mind is “Yes.” Whenever you are asked by your partner, “Do these jeans make me look fat?” just say, “No.” Any other answer can’t lead to anything good and the fact is no one is blind and the person asking already knows the answer to that question. No need to rub salt into the flab.
And speaking of salt, the same exception also applies to the food someone has lovingly prepared for you. When you are presented with a dish the only thing to say is, “Yum.” If by chance it is truly inedible the chef will be aware of this and will whisk away the offending meal. But if you are asked, “What do you think?” remember you are not sitting at the Top Chef Judges’ Table. Your job is not to deliver a verdict, it is to graciously compliment or, barring the ability to lie if the food is not to your liking, say, “This must have taken you all day. Thank you so much!”
I speak to this point from experience. Many years ago I was dating a guy who was scheduled to undergo a laparoscopic procedure the day I was to leave for a long planned family vacation. (I should add that we were teetering on the mutual break-up brink so it wasn’t odd that I was going to be out of town during his time of need.) Knowing I would be away I enlisted a friend to deliver a batch of blondies I had made to the hospital. This was before I had any remote understanding of what purpose specific ingredients served in a baked good. Although I had baked these blondies many times before, that day I decided to cut back on the sugar, thinking it seemed like a lot. Because I wanted my friend to be able to deliver an intact foil pan of the chewy bars I didn’t cut them, or taste them, before handing them off to her. When I called him the day after the operation to see how he was feeling I made the mistake of asking if he’d received the sweet delivery. “Uh-huh,” he groggily mumbled through his Vicodin haze, “They were a little dry.” Can you believe? He couldn’t just say “Thank you”? The fact is I am sure they were dry. Part of brown sugar’s job is to keep things moist and omitting some without making up for it in another way is sure to result in a compromised texture.
I hadn’t made these blondies in years and I’m not sure why. Maybe I was wounded more deeply by that experience than I’d like to admit? Who knows. But they are great. Yes, they do contain a lot of brown sugar. But, the coffee cuts through the sweetness as does using good dark chocolate chips. I’ve broken the no-nut rule here because the pecans really do add so much. They too distract from the sweetness and their crunch complements the chewiness perfectly. So make them for someone you love and if anyone dares to take issue with them (they won’t—I promise), remember to say, “Who asked you?” I wish I had.
Who Asked You? Coffee Blond Brownies
Adapted from The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook, Julee Rosso & Sheila Lukins, 1984
Printer Friendly Version

1 lb dark brown sugar
1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter
2 Tablespoons espresso powder
1 Tablespoon hot water
2 eggs
2 Tablespoons vanilla
2 cups unbleached all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup chopped pecans
1 cup chocolate chips (I used Ghiradelli 60% Cacao Chips)

Heat the brown sugar and butter in a medium-size saucepan over medium-low heat until the butter melts. Dissolve the coffee in the hot water and stir into the butter mixture. Pour into a medium bowl and let cool to room temperature.

Preheat oven to 350. Butter an 13x9-inch baking pan.
When the butter mixture is cool, beat in the eggs and vanilla with a hand-held mixer.
Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt together and stir into the butter mixture with a wooden spoon.
Stir in the pecans and chocolate.

Spread the mixture evenly in the prepared pan with a rubber spatula. Bake until lightly browned, 20-25 minutes. Do not over-bake.

Cool completely and cut into 2-inch squares.
Yield: 28-35 brownies


Putting Out the Brain Fire Honey-Vanilla Pound Cake

My brain is on fire. And not in that good way, like when you’re unfurling a mind-teaser or dissecting a Tom Stoppard play or finishing the Times crossword puzzle. No, the smoke is swirling out of my head because I’m on Twitter.
Oh, I miss the days when you had to sit by a land-line to make a phone call or looked things up in the dictionary or encyclopedia, or watched TV when your show was on or put a stamp on a letter that took five days to get anywhere. That pace seems so much more manageable, and at the time we didn’t know any different so it didn’t feel slow. Now it would be like living in a hell of enforced patience and frustration. We’ve tasted the blinding speed of information and the abundance of choice and how can you ever go back?
Sure, there are those who dig in their Luddite heels and refuse to join the modern age. On the one hand I respect them and on the other, I think they’re annoying. Like those people who don’t have a television. That seems like an over-the-top act of smug defiance filled with judgment of those of us who enjoy a curl on the couch and an episode of Giuliana and Bill, airing Monday nights at 8pm but available anytime if you set your DVR. Luckily the TV-less among us are pretty few. But have you ever had to deal with someone who has no cell phone? There’s no way to reach him after he’s left the house and you need to meet him at the theater but you’re going to be late? No, you haven’t, because you don’t know my father. Dad didn’t own a cell phone until last year. He hates being on the phone and also because he doesn’t believe in anyone being late anyway so why would you need to call him? That all changed after one incident too many where he and my mother clashed over miscommunication that could have been rectified with seven digits and a monthly fee. He finally capitulated although watching him slowly push the buttons and squint as the call goes through is a little painful. As is watching my mother empty her purse on the bus in order to find her ringing phone, open it, also squint, and yell, “Hello!”
At this point TV’s with 2000 channels, DVR’s, Smart Phones and digital music are the base-line for most people, with Tablets and Kindles edging their way into the pack. And I support much of this progress because in many ways life is easier. Speed is supposed to be good because it frees up your time in which to do other things. But that is the dilemma; it kind of doesn’t. There are still only 24 hours in a day, and hopefully you spend some of that time asleep. (Something I find harder to do when my brain is on fire however.) How many of us have DVR’s filled to capacity with things we keep meaning to watch? Emails come day and night and even if you take a day off you are never left alone. Speaking of your job, is it secure? Are you looking for one? You need to join LinkedIn to make sure you aren’t missing out on an improved situation; you have to keep “connecting!” And of course you don’t want to lose touch with that girl you never talked to in the eighth grade so you have to check in on Facebook, several times a day. What of the world? Does the New York Times know to send headlines straight to your e-mailbox or do you go to the home page? And what’s this funny link someone just sent you? (Note: Please don’t send me funny links. They’re usually not that funny and they are just distracting me from Will you forward it on to 50 of your closest friends? Wait! Your land-line is ringing but you just got a text and your pot of spaghetti is boiling over (you still need to eat!)…what do you tend to first?!
And if all of this isn’t enough to make you feel as if your mind is smoldering like a cheap blender trying to chop ice, there’s Twitter, the worst offender of them all. Here’s why, IMO. I was encouraged (more like, “You’re not on Twitter?! You need to be Tweeting!”) to join by those in the (tech) know in order to increase traffic to and awareness of this blog. Immediately after signing up I was bombarded with followers, it was so exciting! Except they weren’t real followers, they were from companies who must have some chip that alerts them to new members and most were of the “Hot Girls!” or “Dishtowels, $1.99!” variety of spam. Then I felt like a loser because I had no followers. So I followed people I already know and asked them to take pity and follow me back. Then I followed the requisite food sites and food gurus. Still, I had no big following and didn’t notice an uptick on the eyeballs that visit this page. And since I am a terrible self-promoter—I hate asking for favors or screaming, “Look at me!”—I’m probably not engaging in this type of social media in the most productive way. Knowing I wasn’t doing “enough” added fuel to the fire in my head. I was inadequate and lazy. So to make myself feel better I started following celebrities; at least I’d be entertained. What? You don’t care what movie @JerrySeinfeld saw this weekend? Or where you can buy the dress @KellyRipa wore on yesterday’s Live with Regis and Kelly? These are the things I’m learning at a manic, abbreviated pace, in 140 characters or less.
In an attempt to put out the brain fire I decided to go Back to Basics and bake the Barefoot Contessa's (@BarefootCntessa) honey vanilla pound cake. What could be calmer or quieter than a perfect, homey cake? The crumb is delicate without being fragile and the subtle notes of honey and vanilla bring it to life without being over-powering. It is so nice on its own with a cup of tea (I’d better make it chamomile, the last thing I need right now is caffeine) or you can top it up with berries or use it as a base for a trifle or toast it and spread with Nutella. Then force yourself to sit in a chair and open a book. That is exactly what I’m going to do, right after I check what @JohnStamos had for lunch. And ask you to follow me on Twitter. My handle? @sweettreatment
Putting Out the Brain Fire Honey-Vanilla Pound Cake
from Barefoot Contessa Back to Basics, Ina Garten 2008
Printer Friendly Version
NOTE: Although pound cake is a basic, making it successfully takes a bit of care. Use COOL room temperature butter--take the butter out of the fridge and in about an hour it should yield a bit but still be quite cool and even break a bit. That is what you want. You don't want it to be completely soft and warm.

1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at cool room temperature
1 1/4 cups sugar
4 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
2 tablespoons honey
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
2 cups sifted cake flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease the bottom of an 8 1/2 x 4 1/2 x 2 1/2-inch loaf pan. Line the bottom with parchment paper, then grease and flour the pan.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar on medium speed for 3 to 4 minutes, until light.

Meanwhile, put the eggs, honey, vanilla, and lemon zest in a glass measuring cup but do not combine. With the mixer on medium-low speed, add the egg mixture, one egg at a time, scraping down the bowl and allowing each egg to become incorporated before adding the next egg.

Sift together the flour, salt, and baking powder. With the mixer on low speed, add it slowly to the batter until just combined. Finish mixing the batter with a rubber spatula and pour it into the prepared pan. Smooth the top.
Bake for 70 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool for 15 minutes, turn out onto a baking rack, and cool completely.
NOTE: My cake took much longer to bake. Almost 90 minutes. Start checking your cake at 70 minutes and don't be surprised if it takes awhile longer.

Yield: One loaf cake


Calm Yourself Chocolate Chunk Cookies

I recently noticed that there seems to be a direct correlation between my increasing age and my decreasing tolerance. Not that I was ever really easy-going but I have become so much more prone to agitation. And it is all of the petty variety brought on by strangers. In all fairness to myself, I am actually more accepting of people I know than people I don’t. Does that make sense?

A few weeks ago my friends Scott and Nancy came down for a visit from Boston and we walked across the Williamsburg Bridge with their friends Gail and Rich to go to Smorgasburg, the food bazaar by the water on the Brooklyn side. This foursome is incredibly can-do, full of more energy and pep than most people I know. They are so curious and always up for anything; their vibe was infectious. I tend to be derisive of the average Billyburg resident, what with their hipster affect and foodie earnestness, but the mere presence of Nancy & Co. helped me stay in the moment and, despite the brutal heat, fully enjoy a day in the sun eating a perfect Connecticut-style lobster roll (hot butter instead of mayo; d-lish!) and a blueberry-apricot popsicle. However, everyone has her limits and on our standingroom-only subway trip home, I felt the thorns of my old self poking through my cheerful patina.
“I can’t believe it’s so crowded on a weekend!” I whined to Nancy as a sweaty, sleeveless person trying to read a book on a packed train brushed up against my exposed shoulder.

“Really? I didn’t even notice!” she smiled.

Now usually when people don’t support my kvetching I become secretly annoyed. How can they not agree? What’s wrong with them and why are they so content?! But I decided to use this instance as a teaching moment. If Nancy and Scott aren’t bothered, why should I be?

That lasted about five minutes until we arrived at our stop and had to wade through the teeming, steaming platform to get to the stairs, where the slowest woman on earth was hoisting herself up to street level. I felt my chest tighten. But it didn’t stop there. At the top of the stairs was a guy who thought now would be the perfect time to stop dead in his tracks and check his iPhone. What is wrong with people? Did he really not know that another 100 people had just gotten off of the train and were trying to get outside, just like him? Maybe I want to check my iPhone too but I know better than to assume everyone else is going to take my need into consideration and gingerly step aside while I hold up the whole exit system!
I guess it’s the sense of entitlement that upsets me the most—like there is no one else on the planet but the offending person. There’s this kid in my building who rides his skateboard up the block so fast, his shaggy, over-grown Justin Bieber hair flying in the wind. He careens into the building and could easily take out one of our older residents, not to mention me. And the thing is, for some reason I find myself unable to confront him. He’s a 14 year old boy! What is wrong with me? But that’s just it. I am more comfortable muttering under my breath and letting my blood pressure skyrocket than just dealing with something, or someone, in a straightforward way. I can talk a big game but when it comes to tackling it head-on, I wimp out. And I secretly hope the kid cracks his skull on the sidewalk. (But far enough away from our building’s door so that his parents can’t sue the co-op.)
Of course you don’t have to be a teenager to be selfish and unaware of your surroundings. Being a movie star helps too. Awhile back I was in a local upscale drugstore while a famous actress, we’ll call her CZ-J, was there with her kids and her little fluffy dog. The pooch was on a retractable leash and while she was chatting with the saleswoman the dog had walked far enough away so that his leash stretched across the entire aisle, blocking anyone from passing.

“Um, excuse me?” I said politely, assuming she hadn’t noticed her dog’s actions.


“Um, can I get by?” I said again.

Still chatting with saleswoman, no acknowledgment of me.

I coughed.

No movement.

Finally I just climbed over the leash, squelching my temptation to kick the little fluff-ball out the way, and looked back at the two chatty Cathy’s (get it?) who didn’t even glance my way. Who does that? And why am I the one forced to adjust myself because of someone else’s thoughtlessness?

I thought I was alone in my pain until I had lunch with my friend Liza the other day. We both got so annoyed (under our breath of course) at the jerk sitting at the table behind us who pushed himself so far back as to literally slam his chair into mine. When the force of the movement caused me to lurch forward I turned my head around quickly and he just kind of stared at me. His lunch companion said, “Dude, you backed into her,” and he grunted something unintelligible. Why couldn’t he just say, “I’m so sorry, please excuse me”? This got Liza and me on a rant about people who text on the street while walking and not looking up, and people who drink open cups of hot coffee on the subway (one abrupt station stop away from causing third degree burns on their fellow commuters), and mothers on cell phones who barrel down the sidewalk using their strollers as weapons. I was out of breath by the time I finished cataloging the affronts to civility that we encounter on a daily basis every time we step out of the serenity of our apartments.
By the time I got home I was in a frenzy. And then I remembered that I had yet to break the binding of a new cookbook I’d been given for my birthday, and isn’t my love of baking borne out of its ability to soothe and calm? Yes, it is. And it is exactly what Joanne Chang’s chocolate chunk cookies did for me. Like most sweet-tooths my search for the perfect chocolate chip cookie is never ending. And I want to keep it that way because I’m not sure what will happen to me if I stop. The quest is part of the fun. These are enormous, and I have to say the portion-controlfreak in me found it almost physically painful to scoop out so much dough at once. But the size gives them a great texture of crispy around the edges and soft in the middle. Using excellent chocolate is worth the extra time needed for chopping and the slightly extra expense. Don’t skimp. The toughest part was waiting a few hours to bake them, but by the time I had measured and mixed, scooped and cleaned up, my blood pressure was back to normal and I was in a calm Zen-like place—which is where I stayed, until I had to leave the house again.
Calm Yourself Chocolate Chunk Cookies
from Flour: Spectacular Recipes from Boston's Flour Bakery & Cafe, by Joanne Chang, 2010
Printer Friendly Version
1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
2 eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup unbleached, all-purpose flour
1 cup bread flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon Kosher salt
9 ounces semisweet chocolate (about 1 1/2 cups)
2 1/2 ounces milk chocolate, chopped (about 1/2 cup)
Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or a handheld mixer or a wooden spoon), cream together the butter and both sugars on medium speed for about 5 minutes or until mixture is light and fluffy. (If using a handheld mixer or wooden spoon it will take more like 10 minutes.) Stop the mixer a few times and use a rubber spatula to scrape the sides and bottom of the bowl and the paddle to release any clinging butter or sugar. Beat in the eggs and vanilla on medium speed for 2-3 minutes, or until thoroughly combined. Scrape the bowl and paddle again to make sure the eggs are thoroughly incorporated.

In a medium bowl, stir together both flours, baking soda, and salt until well mixed. Add both chocolates and toss to combine. On low speed (or with the wooden spoon), slowly add the flour-chocolate mixture to the butter-sugar mixture and then mix just until the flour mixture is totally incorporated and the dough is evenly mixed.

For the best results, scrape the dough into an airtight container and let it rest in the fridge overnight (or for at least 3-4 hours) before baking. When you are ready to bake, position a rack in the center of the oven, and heat to 350 F.
Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Drop the dough in 1//4 cup balls (I used a regular sized ice cream scoop), spacing them about 2 inches apart. Flatten each ball slightly with the palm of your hand.Bake for 15-18 minutes, or until the cookies are golden brown on the edges and slightly soft in the center. DO NOT let them get brown all the way through and over bake, you want the center be slightly underbaked and chewy. Let cool on the baking sheet on a wire rack for 5-10 minutes, then transfer the cookies to a rack to cool completely.
Yield: 24 cookies