My mother, Pearl, never thought of herself as a good cook. But she was—at least when she deftly and caringly made her Aunt Eva’s cookies.
I vaguely remember Aunt Eva, one of my grandmother Martha Gluck’s two sisters, from Thanksgivings as a child. Each year we schlepped the Thanksgiving turkey from our house in suburban New York to my grandparents’ apartment off Central Park, and Aunt Eva brought her famous cookies, made from a thin butter-pastry dough spread with jam or cocoa and cinnamon, then carefully crafted into a jelly roll, baked, and sliced.