Zucchini Cookies

The okra is doing what okra does in August, which is to say it is taking over. Every two days I go out to the little garden Robert built me and there are more pods than I left behind, standing straight up like green fingers pointing at God, growing so fast you could almost watch them if you had the patience and the knees to stand there, which I do not. You have to pick okra small — four inches, maybe five — or it gets woody and tough and no amount of cooking will forgive you for your laziness. I pick it with a paper bag and a pair of kitchen scissors and I talk to the plants because Hattie Pearl talked to hers and I turned out fine.

Fried okra. That is what we're doing this week. That is what we're always doing in August when the garden won't stop giving. Cornmeal, salt, pepper, a little cayenne from the jar on the windowsill — Clarence's jar, the one I didn't label, which is running low now and will need to be refilled from the new batch, but the jar stays his. Cut the okra into rounds, toss it in buttermilk, dredge it in the cornmeal, and fry it in Hattie Pearl's cast iron skillet in enough oil to make a doctor faint. The oil has to be hot. Not warm, not getting there, hot. You drop one piece in and if it doesn't sizzle like it has something to say, you wait.

Devon stopped by after his shift — he works the early truck on Saturdays now — and ate a plate of fried okra standing at the counter like a man who hasn't eaten in a week, which is not true because Kayla feeds that man, but Devon has a talent for looking hungry that I respect. He brought shrimp from a man he knows at the dock. Wild-caught, heads on, still smelling like the river. I told Denise to put them in the freezer and we'd do shrimp and grits on Sunday. Denise said, "Mama, it's a hundred degrees, nobody wants grits." I said, "It is never too hot for grits. That is a lie told by people who do not understand grits." She put the shrimp in the freezer.

Michael was in the kitchen with me while I fried. He stood on the step stool Kayla keeps here and watched the okra turn gold in the oil with the seriousness of a child witnessing something important. He reached for the skillet and I caught his hand — gentle, firm, the way Hattie Pearl caught mine forty-five years ago — and I said, "Not yet, baby. But soon." Soon. He is seventeen months old. Soon is a long way off. But the kitchen will be here when he's ready, and the skillet will be here, and the cornmeal will be here, and someone who loves him will show him how.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The small Southern-cooking tradition is the small kitchen-identity. The small fried chicken on the small Sunday. The small collard greens with the small smoked ham hock cooked low and slow for three hours. The small cornbread baked in the small cast-iron skillet that had been Hattie Pearl’s (Dot’s mother’s) and her mother’s before that. The small biscuits-and-gravy. The small recipes that have been in the family since the small 1920s.

The small monthly grandchild-visits rotate through the small school-year. Earl Jr.’s family comes the small first weekend of the month. Patricia’s family comes the small second weekend. Denise and Kayla drop by the small most-weekends. The small fourth weekend Dorothy has to herself. The small four-week-rotation has held since 2019.

The small seven grandchildren live in the small scatter across the small Southeast. Earl Jr. (the small oldest son) is in Atlanta working for UPS. Patricia (the small daughter) is in Jacksonville with her small husband and three small kids. Michael (the middle son) had been killed in 1998 in the small I-16 accident outside Macon at age 27; his small daughter Kayla had been raised by Dot and Earl and is now a small nurse at Memorial Hospital. Denise (the small youngest daughter) is in Savannah ten minutes away and checks on Dot daily.

The okra gets all the glory in August, but the zucchini’s been quietly piling up in the crisper drawer all week, and Michael watching me work at that skillet reminded me there’s more than one way to put a garden to use. While the oil was cooling and Devon had gone back to Kayla’s with a foil-covered plate, I shredded what was left of the zucchini into these cookies — soft, cinnamon-warm, the kind of thing that disappears off the counter before you’ve wiped down the stove. The garden insists; you find ways to say yes.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 24 cookies

Ingredients

1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 large egg
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup finely shredded zucchini (squeezed of excess moisture)
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup raisins or semi-sweet chocolate chips (optional)

Instructions

Preheat. Heat oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or lightly grease them.
Cream butter and sugar. In a large bowl, beat softened butter and sugar together until light and fluffy, about 2–3 minutes.
Add wet ingredients. Beat in the egg and vanilla extract until fully combined. Stir in the shredded zucchini — the batter will look a little loose; that’s right.
Mix dry ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt.
Combine. Gradually stir the dry ingredients into the wet mixture until just incorporated. Fold in raisins or chocolate chips if using. Do not overmix.
Portion and bake. Drop rounded tablespoons of dough onto the prepared baking sheets, spacing about 2 inches apart. Bake 12–15 minutes, until the edges are set and the tops look just dry.
Cool. Let cookies rest on the baking sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack. They firm up as they cool.

Nutrition (per serving)

Zucchini Cookies — When the Garden Won’t Stop, You Bake