Matcha Cookie Christmas Tree Stacks

Miya had her four-month checkup and she is, according to the pediatrician, "thriving." I wrote the word in my journal when I got home: thriving. My daughter is thriving. My anxiety wants evidence that everything is fine, and here it is, printed on a growth chart, measured and weighed and documented by a medical professional. Thriving. I will try to believe it. I will try to let the word be enough.

I started going to the farmers market every Sunday again, properly, not the frantic twenty-minute dashes of the early weeks. Miya comes with me in the carrier and I walk slowly through the stalls — the strawberries are here now, Oregon strawberries, which are small and ugly and taste like what strawberries are supposed to taste like before industrial agriculture decided they should be large and red and flavorless. I bought two baskets and ate half of them on the walk home, staining my fingers, juice dripping onto Miya's hat. She did not care. She was watching a dog.

I wrote a blog post about strawberries and seasonality — about how living in Portland has taught me to wait for things, to eat what is here now and miss what is not and trust that it will come back. Asparagus in spring, strawberries in June, tomatoes in August, squash in fall. The calendar of food is a calendar of patience, and patience is something my anxiety has never been good at. But cooking teaches it. The strawberry does not come early because you want it to. You wait, and when it arrives, you pay attention. You eat it standing in the sun. You let the juice run down your chin.

I made a strawberry mochi at home — not traditional, exactly, but inspired by Fumiko's daifuku. Mochi dough made in the microwave, a fresh strawberry wrapped inside with a little sweet red bean paste. They were messy and imperfect and I brought some to my yoga class and everyone loved them. One of my students asked for the recipe. I realized I did not have a written recipe — I had a feeling, a memory of Fumiko's hands, a sense of how the dough should feel. So I wrote it down, carefully, the way Fumiko never did for her gyoza, and gave it to the student. The chain of teaching, the passing of food knowledge from hand to hand — it started before I noticed it starting.

Brian worked late every night this week. I ate dinner alone four times. I am keeping count, which is probably not healthy, but anxiety loves data, loves evidence, loves building a case. I am building a case I do not want to win.

The student who asked for my strawberry mochi recipe got me thinking about the way food knowledge travels — never quite written down, always a little transformed by the hands it passes through. When I sat down to write something I could actually share, I kept returning to matcha: that same quiet, Japanese-inflected sweetness that runs through Fumiko’s kitchen, through my mother’s, through mine. These matcha cookie stacks are not mochi, but they carry that same spirit — layered, patient, a little imperfect, and exactly the kind of thing you bring to a room full of people and watch disappear.

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 12 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour (plus 30 minutes chilling) | Servings: 12 cookie trees

Ingredients

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling
2 tablespoons high-quality matcha powder
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, room temperature
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
For the frosting:
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, sifted
2–3 tablespoons whole milk or heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
White nonpareils or sparkling sugar, for decorating

Instructions

Make the dough. Whisk together flour, matcha powder, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. In a large bowl, beat softened butter and granulated sugar with a hand mixer on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the egg and vanilla and beat until fully combined. Reduce speed to low and mix in the flour mixture until a soft dough forms.
Chill the dough. Divide dough in half, flatten each portion into a disk, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. This keeps the cookies from spreading and helps them hold their shape when cut.
Preheat and prepare. Preheat your oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Set out star or tree cutters in three graduated sizes — large (about 3 inches), medium (about 2 inches), and small (about 1 inch).
Roll and cut. Working with one disk at a time on a lightly floured surface, roll dough to about 1/4-inch thickness. Cut 12 large stars or trees, 12 medium, and 12 small. Re-roll scraps as needed. Place on prepared baking sheets, spacing about 1 inch apart.
Bake. Bake for 10–12 minutes, until the edges are just set and the cookies no longer look glossy on top. They should not brown. Let cool on the baking sheet for 5 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.
Make the frosting. Whisk together powdered sugar, 2 tablespoons milk, vanilla, and a pinch of salt until smooth and thick but spreadable. Add the remaining tablespoon of milk a little at a time if needed to reach a pipeable consistency.
Assemble the trees. Place a large cookie as the base. Spread or pipe a small amount of frosting in the center. Stack the medium cookie on top, offset slightly so the points create a layered effect. Add another small dab of frosting and place the small cookie on top. Press gently. Repeat with remaining cookies.
Decorate. While frosting is still tacky, scatter white nonpareils or sparkling sugar over the stacks. Let frosting set at room temperature for about 15 minutes before serving or storing.

Nutrition (per serving)

Matcha Cookie Christmas Tree Stacks — The Recipe That Started With Someone Else’s Hands