This Year I am Thankful for an Empty Nest...and Zombieland

For the first time in my fifty-odd years, I celebrated Thanksgiving without my kids, without the comfort of my parents, or my siblings and their extended families. Here, at last, the dreaded empty nest... 

I won't be alone per se, but I also won't have what I have come to see as a "normal" Rockwell-esque Thanksgiving. But I did have some time to prepare for this eventuality...

Rockwell's Freedom from Want ©1943

My original plan, let's call it Plan A, for dealing with no one being home this year called for taking an extended Thanksgiving break from work, flying to the East Coast, and spending the holiday with my parents, sisters, and their families, and my son and his girlfriend. I'd have still missed my two girls who were off doing other things (one with her fiancé and the other with her mother), but still, I had hoped it would be one of those old-fashioned family get-togethers filled with great food, fun games, and the occasional family angst (that always comes when everyone is brought together in such close proximity).

You know, all the elements that make for cherished memories...

As is often the case, real life got in the way of my best-laid plans. The first SNAFU was financial. With my youngest a sophomore at a wonderful(ly expensive) private liberal arts college and my oldest getting married in the Spring, rubbing enough nickels together to pay for a transcontinental Thanksgiving flight would mean adding to my credit card debt. If I am being completely honest, I would have done it, but it wasn't the right thing. However, the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, work, reared its ugly head. Unexpectedly, my boss went on a lengthy medical leave. This meant cutting what I had planned to be a ten-day trip down to just four (and traveling on two of the busiest and most expensive days of the year). Before the last two horsemen appeared, as much as I longed for that Rockwell-esque holiday, I decided to reassess Plan A - it just wasn't in the cards this year.

I started to think of ways to spend my time differently this year; let's call this Plan B... Four days off work, no real responsibilities, and a very strong desire to avoid Black Friday at all costs. Meaning I could spend four days hiking around Southern California, footloose and fancy-free. Maybe my long-delayed hike of the La Jolla Canyon Loop in Ventura County or the Backbone Trail near Malibu. However, a quick peek showed that Southern California's last couple of fires and the follow-on rainy seasons had resulted in many trail closures in the Santa Monica Mountains.  Thinking less grandiose, living in the foothills means plenty of hikes much closer to home. My decision was made; I planned to strike out and hike the 'Glendale trifecta' (the Verdugo Mountain Peaks, Cherry Canyon-Cerro Negro Loop, and Mt. Lukens Loop). About twenty-five to thirty miles of mostly quiet hiking in my backyard. Ace the Wonder Dog and I were set for our very own Thanksgiving #optoutside adventure...

Alas, Plan B was dashed by Mother Nature. A series of Pacific storms decided to race down the California Coast, making this year's holiday one of the coldest and wettest Thanksgiving weekends in Los Angeles in the past 15 years. While the cold would have been manageable, washed-out and muddy trails (and a twenty-pound Scottish Terrier/Schnauzer), don't mix...

On to Plan C... a scaled-down, traditional Thanksgiving dinner, maybe a movie, and some much-needed rest. A wonderful lazy, long weekend...As those of you who have ever prepared a "traditional" family Thanksgiving know, just the food prep and cooking is an all-day affair (I even started the night before), not to mention the dreaded dishes! So much for relaxing!

But slave away in the kitchen, I did (but I got to watch Zombieland while cooking). The menu was mostly my Mom's traditional recipes, with a couple of my own additions. Everything was delicious, if I do say so myself. But even with my efforts to cut all the recipes in half, there were still tons of leftovers - but I'll return to food later... I can hear you, gentle reader asking a question... "Zombieland, why on earth watch Zombieland as a Thanksgiving movie?!" My answer was, "Why not?"

But really, I generally avoid horror movies, almost like I would a zombie-inducing plague. That said, a few days before, I stumbled upon a really well-written (and positive) review of the Zombieland sequel Zombieland: Double Tap. The author raved about how funny the sequel was (and how much they enjoyed the parody-esque original). The review was so gushing I decided to see the new movie over my newly freed-up long weekend. But before going to see Double Tap, I naturally decided I needed to watch the original movie first...hence my cooking companion for the day.

Review

Zombieland directed by Ruben Fleischer
My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

Let me say what a treat this 2009 movie was to watch. Clearly, my disdain for horror movies has been misplaced, at least for comedy/horror/romance movies. Like most really good movies, everything starts with the script. Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick's story is wry, witty, and has snappy dialog (the kind I narrate in my head during "real" conversations!). The story here is coupled with quick pacing, and interesting visual overlays, including the '31 Rules' and Zombie Kill of the Week cuts by director Ruben Fleischer (in his feature directorial debut). His direction seamlessly ties excellent performances by the cast (Jesse Eisenberg, Emma Stone, Woody Harrelson, and Abigail Breslin) into one funny (not-so-scary) little (81-minute) horror/comedy film that one professional reviewer called a "balls out the entertaining movie." The blood and gore are there, but not so overwhelming, and certainly not just for blood and gore's sake (which is probably why I like this movie - did I mention it was entertaining?).

The comedic timing of the actors and human relationship story elements make up for some questionable decisions the characters make (seriously, in a world infested with fast-moving, light and noise-sensitive, flesh-eating zombies, why would you turn on all the lights and music at an amusement park?!). But this is a horror/comedy, after all... I thoroughly enjoyed the production, the "surprise" cameo in the middle of the movie, and the slow-mo gory scenes, which ended up being really fun.

Completely not what I had expected..with a name like Zombieland!! It changed my mind completely about this sub-genre of honor films, and I'd rank it up there with some of my other favorite screwball comedies like Kelly's Heroes, Big Trouble in Little China, The Great Race, and Dr. Strangelove. So, bring on Shaun of the Dead and Warm Bodies!

I know, I know, this probably sounds like a terrible Thanksgiving to the more extroverted personality types in my family, the ones who thrive on social activity (you know who you are!), but an excellent dinner, a funny movie, and time to myself, really worked for me..but next year I will finish those hikes, or at least head back East for a Plan A vacation!

To that end, this year, I am grateful not only for my family and the blessings of years of special holiday memories but also for some serious time to decompress and hang out alone (with some canine companionship). No real expectations, no responsibilities, and no worries (well, at least not many). I'm also thankful for Zombieland and the broadening of my movie genre palate.

Epilogue - 'Twas the Night After Thanksgiving...

I mentioned the food earlier; despite dropping from a 23/24 pound turkey to a 15-pound bird this year, there were still plenty of leftovers. But most importantly, the turkey carcass. With extra time on my hands (with few family obligations), I decided to try my hand at one of my Mom's old favorites, Turkey Carcass Soup. All of (or perhaps any of) my culinary skills are largely due to my Mom (thank you, I love you), so in an effort to get as many family recipes documented as possible, here is my take on her original recipe:

Turkey Carcass and Vegetable Soup

Ingredients

1 turkey carcass
4 quarts water
2lbs little (baby) potatoes (halved or quartered)
16oz baby carrots, diced
4-6 stalks of celery, chopped
2 14.5oz cans of diced tomatoes (I prefer the ones seasoned with basil, garlic, & oregano)
1 10oz bag of frozen peas
1 10oz bag of frozen corn
48oz turkey bone broth (chicken stock can be substituted in a pinch) - optional
1 tablespoon of garlic salt
1½ tablespoons of onion powder (you can substitute 1 large diced onion)

Simmering the carcass

1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
1½ teaspoons of kosher salt
1 teaspoon of dried parsley flakes
1 teaspoon of dried basil
1 bay leaf
½ teaspoon of granulated garlic
¼ teaspoon of cracked black pepper
¼ teaspoon of paprika
¼ teaspoon of poultry seasoning
1 pinch of dried thyme

Directions

1. Place the turkey carcass (I also included the turkey wings) in a large stock pot and add the water; bring to a boil, reduce heat to simmer, cover the pot, and cook the turkey frame until the remaining meat falls off the bones (at least 1 hour, but even better if it can simmer overnight).
2. Use a wire strainer to remove the turkey carcass bones and separate the meat. 
3. Chop the meat (and look for small bones, especially ribs).
4. Strain the broth through a mesh strainer into a clean soup pot and add the chopped turkey (sans bones) back into the broth. Depending on the length of time you simmered the carcass (and your personal preference for the liquidity of your soup, you may want to add the turkey bone broth at this time. Bring the mix to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer.
5. Stir in the potatoes, carrots, celery, tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, and dry seasonings and simmer for an additional 30 minutes.
6. Add in the frozen corn and peas and simmer for a final 30 minutes (until all the vegetables are tender),
7. Remove the bay leaf, and the soup is ready to serve.

Searching for Mom's Meatloaf

There's a certain kind of recipe that lives only in memory—formless, undocumented, yet stubbornly persistent in taste and feeling. For me, it's Mom's meatloaf. The one she made when we were kids, back when Tuesday nights meant the smell of onions browning in her old cast-iron skillet would drift upstairs to where we were supposed to be doing homework. The one that would somehow taste even better the next day, straight from the fridge, nuked in the microwave until the edges got those perfect crispy bits, and served with some mixed vegetables and a helping of Del Monte canned pears (yes, with the heavy syrup—because Mom believed dessert didn't always have to come last).

I can still see her in that kitchen sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She'd hum along to whatever was playing on the little radio on the counter top—sometimes Debbie Boone, sometimes the local news, sometimes just static that she'd forgotten to tune out. Her hands moved with the confidence of someone who'd made this meal a hundred times before, never measuring, never second-guessing. A pinch of this, a splash of that, all while keeping one ear tuned to our chatter from the next room.

I've asked her about it a few times over the years. She always gives that same good-natured shrug—the one that says oh, honey—and points to her old recipe box, which is really more of a time capsule. Index cards soft with age, yellowed newspaper clippings held together with scotch tape gone brown at the edges, and the occasional note scribbled in my grandmother's careful shorthand that only Mom can decode. But no meatloaf. Whatever magic formula she used back then is either lost to time or never existed outside her muscle memory and instinct—the kind of cooking that came from feeding a family on a budget and making it feel like abundance.

Cooking was one of my mom's love languages, though she never would have called it that. She was from a generation that showed love through action, not words. But you could feel it—in the way she made holiday meals feel like grand occasions even when money was tight. In the homemade birthday cakes that somehow always turned out perfect despite our ancient oven's uneven heating. In the way she'd quietly orchestrate dinner for six while juggling homework questions and referee disputes, never once making it seem like a burden. That meatloaf was part of that rhythm, part of that daily offering. It wasn't fancy—we weren't a fancy family—but it was made with intention, with the kind of love that asks for nothing in return.

I didn't inherit the creative cooking gene—let's be honest about that. Where Mom could look at leftovers and see possibility, I see only confusion. But she did teach me something just as important: how to read a recipe with patience, how to follow steps without cutting corners, and how even a simple meal, made with care, could carry a little of that same love forward into the next generation. So I try. Even now, all these years later and eight states away from that kitchen, I find myself chasing that feeling. Recreating it, however imperfectly, in my own smaller kitchen with its different sounds and different light.

Sometimes I'll catch myself humming while I cook—usually something I heard her humming years ago—and for just a moment, I'm eight years old again, setting the table with our mismatched plates and waiting for Dad to come home from work.

So recently, I decided to try my own version. Call it meatloaf archaeology—digging through layers of memory, trying to unearth something that might never have been written down in the first place. A little educated guessing, a little wishful thinking, a little trial and error. And this time, miracle of miracles, it came out close. Maybe not exactly Mom's—I suspect that particular magic is locked in with her recipe box secrets—but close enough that my younger self might've mistaken it for the real thing if I'd come home from school, backpack slung over one shoulder, baseball cap askew, looking for something to tide me over before "F Troop" came on and the world got quiet for thirty minutes.

Here's what I came up with—part memory, part hope, part love letter to Tuesday nights that felt like home:

---

My Almost-Mom’s Meatloaf (Baked Alaska Style)

Ingredients:

For the Meatloaf:

    • 1½ pounds ground beef
    • 1 cup quick-cooking oats
    • 1 packet au jus mix
    • 1 egg
    • ½ cup milk
    • 1 small onion, finely chopped
    • 1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
    • ¼ tsp black pepper
    • ½ tsp minced garlic
    • 1 tbsp mustard
    • ¼ cup ketchup

For the Mashed Potato Topping:

    • 4 servings mashed potatoes (homemade or instant—no judgment)
    • Optional: more ketchup

Instructions:

Preheat the Oven: Set to 350°F and lightly grease a loaf pan.

Mix the Loaf: Combine all meatloaf ingredients in a large bowl. Don’t be shy—use your hands. That’s the only way to get it right.

Shape and Bake: Press the mixture into the loaf pan and bake for 45–55 minutes, or until the center hits 160°F.

Make Your Potatoes: Whip up your mashed potatoes while the meatloaf cooks. Feel free to add chives, cheese, or a little garlic if that’s your thing.

Top and Broil: When the meatloaf is done, spread the mashed potatoes over the top. Want to go full retro? Add a thin layer of ketchup on top of that. Then broil for 3–5 minutes to get a little color and texture.

Rest and Serve: Let it rest a few minutes before slicing.

---

Is it exactly like Mom's? No. The honest truth is, nothing ever will be. But it feels like it is, and maybe that's the point. Maybe the secret ingredient was never something you could measure or write down—maybe it was just the love that went into it, the hands that made it, the home that held it.

I'll keep tweaking it here and there, chasing the flavor that lives in my head and my heart. But in the meantime, this one's earned a spot in my recipe box—right between "Mom's Overnight French Toast" and “Christmas Kolachky,” in the place where memory meets hope.

And who knows? Maybe someday, twenty years from now, one of my grandkids will come home hungry and remember this version just the same way I remember hers. Maybe they'll chase their own perfect meatloaf, adding their own touches, their own love, their own memories to the mix. Maybe that's how the best recipes survive—not on paper, but in the hearts of people who understand that some things are worth remembering, worth recreating, worth passing on.

That's what Mom would have wanted, I think. Not perfection, but connection. Not the exact recipe, but the feeling it gave us—the sense that we were loved, we were fed, we were home.

Magic Reindeer Feed: Our Christmas Tradition

"But how will Santa know where we are?" Faith's voice carried that particular mix of worry and wonder that only a child facing their first Christmas crisis can muster. We'd recently moved to Southern California—no snow, no chimney, no clue how Santa was supposed to make it work.

Hanging Santa's Magic Key, Christmas Eve 2004

"And how will he get in without a fireplace?" she added, her brow furrowed with the kind of serious concern that makes you realize your five-year-old has been thinking this through.

At the time, Teddy was still a true believer, full of wonder and ready to defend Santa's honor to anyone who dared question him. Kailey, on the other hand, had already been quietly inducted into the fraternity of elves—that knowing, magical role older siblings step into when they learn the truth but choose to protect the magic for the little ones. That Christmas became a turning point. The questions were real, but so was our response.

So, like any good parent backed into a magical corner, I improvised.

The Solution

Kailey, Faith, Madison, and Teddy making
Magic Reindeer Feed, Christmas Eve 2008

2004 marked the beginning of our tradition of Magic Reindeer Feed and Santa's Magic Key. Standing in our California kitchen, we gathered around the counter. The kids stirred the oats and sparkles, the gentle sound of ingredients hitting the mixing bowl creating its own kind of Christmas music. Faith added a healthy scoop of Christmas hope with each stir.

The mixture was festive and fun, but more than that, it was purposeful. I told the kids the reindeer would be able to see it glimmering from the sky, guiding Santa straight to our home. It was a homemade beacon—one part snack, two parts signal, and all heart.

And the key? Oh, the key. Growing up, my mom had her own ways of making Christmas magic work, no matter where we lived or what challenges we faced. She taught me that the best traditions aren't the ones you inherit perfectly—they're the ones you adapt with love. Our first Magic Key was humble and homemade—an old house key we weren't using anymore, decorated with a red yarn lanyard and absolutely smothered in as much glitter as we could glue on. It looked more like a kindergarten art project than a piece of North Pole tech, but it worked.

A few years later, one of Santa's "elves" (with an Amazon account) upgraded us to a more elegant skeleton key—something shiny and antique-looking, worthy of the North Pole. But I still keep that original glittery mess tucked away with our decorations. It was the key that started it all.

Magic Reindeer Feed Recipe

Ingredients:

• 1 cup rolled oats
• 1/4 cup red and green sugar sprinkles
• 1/4 cup edible glitter or colored sanding sugar
• A pinch of belief (the secret ingredient)

Instructions: Mix all dry ingredients in a large bowl until evenly distributed. The mixture can be stored in an airtight container for up to two weeks before Christmas Eve.

The kids spreading the feed, Christmas Eve 2006

On Christmas Eve, give each child a small handful to scatter on the lawn, porch, or even a balcony. If rain is in the forecast, place small piles under covered areas or on windowsills—reindeer have excellent eyesight.

Notes: Back then, we used regular craft glitter, thinking more about sparkle than sustainability. But over time, as the kids got older and more aware of the world around them, we made the switch to edible glitter—a small but meaningful change to make sure the reindeer (and the North Pole) stayed microplastic-free. Magic shouldn't come at the planet's expense.

The Ritual

The kids scattered the feed on our lawn with the gravity of an ancient ritual, whispering instructions to Dasher and Dancer and all the rest. Their voices carried across the California evening air, mixing with the sound of distant neighbors and the unfamiliar hum of our new neighborhood. I remember thinking how different this felt from the snowy Christmases of my childhood, yet somehow just right.

The next morning, we'd find the sparkles mostly gone (thanks to birds, wind, and morning dew), evidence enough that the reindeer had found us after all.

The Evolution

Now, years later, the kids are older. The questions have changed. Kailey is getting ready for medical school, Teddy is in college, Faith has taken her place as an elf, and all the kids know the secret. But the magic? It lingers.

However, I've learned something important about traditions—they're not museum pieces to be preserved exactly as created. They're living things that grow and adapt. Some years, we've added different colored sugars depending on what I had on hand. One year, we made extra bags so the kids’ friends could join in “our” ritual. The tradition became less about the exact recipe and more about the moment of connection—that Christmas Eve pause where we acknowledge wonder together.

Every Christmas Eve, I still see that first night through Faith's eyes—the worry, the wonder, and the moment I realized that magic isn't something that happens to you. It's something you create, one handful of sparkly oats at a time.

If Yes, Virginia was about believing in the unseen, this tradition was about doing something to make that belief real. And maybe that's the greatest kind of magic there is—the kind that starts with a parent's quick thinking and becomes a memory none of us will ever forget.

Merry Christmas, and may you always find just enough sparkle in your yard and your heart.

Green Beans, Chicken & Potatoes

Over the years, I have come to realize that each of my children can be a very picky eater. One often repeated conversation starts...

Dad: "What do you guys want for dinner?"
Child 1: "In-N-Out"
Child 3: "No, I hate In-N-Out, let's go to KFC..."
Child 2: "Yuck, they are both disgusting, I want barbecue..."
Child 1: "I asked first..."

       ...and so on, until:

Dad: "...Enough, we are stopping at the grocery store for TV dinners."

Most parents can relate to some form of this conversation. Having one picky eater can be challenging, but having three ends up being an argument. It has taken me lots of time to realize that I can not force the kids to like (or even eat) the foods that I think they should.

But coming to this realization was challenging, and I haven't always earned my "best parent of the year" trophies when it comes to getting my fussbudget eaters to "come around"...there was the (now) notorious episode of my oldest hiding sweet potatoes in her milk (and me then trying to force her to drink the concoction). Then there was the Tuna Helper riot of 2007, with my youngest (only slightly exaggerated for comic effect...) throwing her pasta at me, from across the table, and me responding that she could have it for breakfast too...

At the end of the day, I do realize that I can't force my children to do anything, especially eat, so I have (for the most part) just stop trying. The best I can do, is offer them nutritious, varied foods—and eat them myself. The kids can have theirs, or not, and the best I can do is model the behavior I want them to emulate.

So, I put the food on their plates, if it stays there, I don't push them (too much—but is a "no-thank you" bite too much to ask?!) . Really I try not to stress over it too much (to varying degrees of success). Unfortunately, none of them seem to like the same foods at the same time which can make family dinner time a pretty stressful situation for everyone involved.

But I finally found a one-pan meal that they all tolerate (some might even say that they like...). Presenting Italian Chicken:

Ingredients

• 6 small to medium red potatoes, cut
• 8/9 oz package of frozen cut green beans
• 1 1/2 lb chicken breasts (3-6 breasts)
• 1/2 c. butter
• 1 package Italian dressing mix

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Lightly grease a 9x13" (3 quart) baking dish with butter.
3. Line one side of the baking dish with the cut green beans.
4. Line the chicken breasts down the middle of the baking dish.
5. Cube the potatoes and line the opposite side (from the green beans) of dish with the potatoes.
6. Cut the stick of butter into small pats and layer over the green beans, potatoes and chicken. 
7. Sprinkle Italian dressing over the entire pan. Cover with foil.
8. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour 15 minutes (or until the chicken breasts reach 165 degrees internal temperature).

There isn't anything here that any of the three kids hate (in fact, they love all the ingredients, although just last night my youngest says she doesn't like the green beans with the Italian dressing mix...sigh). 

I serve this meal with a fruit salad, or even some canned pears or peaches, and voila dinner time is solved (at least two times per month).

It took time, some trial and error, and a few tears (mine and the kids), but I learned that by continually offering them choices, I was finally able to hit upon something that appeals to all of our tastes (well, for the most part)!

Christmas Cookies

Early yesterday, as I was finishing up the hustle and bustle of wrapping presents and getting things ready for Christmas morning, I decided to write a blog post about some of the feelings I was having, feelings that I thought were tied to this particular Christmas.

As I was writing that post, I had the epiphany that many of my fondest memories (of Christmases past) were wrapped around the cooking, and baking, that my Mom (and Great-Grandmother) did to make the holidays a special treat. Over the years, I have asked my Mom to send me recipes for many of those special family treats, and I have the tattered remains of several printed out e-mails containing our family's "secret recipes". But I always have a hard time locating them when I really need them, so now that the kids have left to go to their mother's house, I thought I would take the opportunity to share some of the recipes in this blog (providing both an archive of the the recipe, and a chance to pass the recipes along to family and friends...).

So first up are three of Santa's (and, coincidentally, my) all-time favorite cookie recipes from Mom's kitchen:

Almond Crescents

This is a very basic tea cookie recipe, but I always associate them with my Mom's Christmas cookies. They're very buttery with a pronounced almond flavor, and they are a rich treat with a cup of eggnog, or your favorite tea...

1 lb butter
3/4 cup of confectioners sugar
2 tablespoons Kirsch or white rum
2 teaspoons vanilla
4 cups of flower
4 cups ground almonds

Preheat oven to 350°F

Cream butter until light and fluffy,
Add sugar, then vanilla and liqueur. Beat in flower and then almonds - the dough will be very stiff.

Pinch off 1 tablespoon of dough and form into crescent.
Roll in confectioners sugar, and place on cookie sheet.
Bake at 350°F for 20 minutes until golden brown.
Remove from cookie sheet while still hot and roll in confectioners sugar again.
Place on wax paper to cool, and use wax paper to separate layers while storing.

Toffee Squares

These are the perfect cookie for office cookie exchanges, they make great gifts for neighbors and staff, but in my experience, Santa really loves these!

1/2 lb butter (2 sticks)
1 cup brown sugar (firmly packed)
1 egg yolk
1 tsp vanilla
2 cups flour
2 large Hershey bars (1 lb size)
1 cup finely chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 350°F

Cream butter until fluffy. Add sugar a little at a time, creaming until sugar dissolves. Add egg yolk and vanilla to butter mixture, beating well. Then add flour a little at a time until well mixed.
Spread 1/2 the dough in the bottom of a lightly greased jelly roll pan.
Bake at 350°F for 15-20 minutes till golden -- do not over bake.

While crust bakes, melt 1/2 the chocolate in microwave.
Pour the melted chocolate onto hot crust as as it comes out of the oven.
Spread the chocolate evenly over crust, sprinkle with half the nuts.
Cut into bars immediately.
Repeat for second batch.

These cookies are very rich, so make the bars small.

Kolachky

This little pastry/cookie's name is pronounced koh-LAH-chkey by my family (but how ever you pronounce it, they are delicious). The recipe came over from the Old World (Slovakia/Bohemia) with my Great-Grandmother at the turn of the 20th Century. Our family couples the cookie with a fruit preserve filling--apricot and strawberry are St. Nick's favorites! Other Eastern European cultures use poppy seed, plum, and cream cheese fillings (but any sweet pie filling will work).

3 cups flour
3 tablespoons confectioners sugar
3 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/8 cups butter
2, 8 ounce packages of cream cheese
3 medium egg yolks, well beaten
3/4 cup of fruit preserves

Preheat oven to 375°F

Mix flour, sugar, baking powder and salt, then set aside.
Cream butter and cream cheese until light and fluffy...the longer the better.  Add egg yolks and beat again until light and fluffy. Add flour mix slowly and beat until completely absorbed--chill the dough until firm.
Roll out one-quarter of the dough at a time into 1/4 inch thick round...use a small cookie cutters to cut dough into 1 3/4 inch shapes (round, stars, hearts, etc...).
Make a dent in the dough shape with finger and put a 1/4 teaspoon dollop of preserves into dent.
Place one inch apart and bake at 375° for 15 minutes or until golden... remove to racks for cooling.

If you have some extra time, you can use this "made from scratch" apricot filling to pair with the cookies:

Apricot Filling

1 cup dried apricots
1/3 cup sugar
1 tablespoon butter
dash of lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Put dried apricots into a saucepan with enough cold water to cover them.
Bring to a boil and simmer until the fruit is very soft (at least 15 minutes).
Drain off all the liquid in the pan.
Transfer plumped fruit to work bowl of food processor.
Add sugar, butter, and grated lemon zest. Process until quite smooth.
Stir in 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract. Transfer fruit filling to a bowl and
let the mixture cool before you use it to fill the kolachky.