Those wonderful cookies I can't eat

This old body is betraying me today. Not only do I have a toothache, actually a jaw ache under a long-broken molar, I have the beginnings of a new shingles attack and an unexplained twinge in my chest.
I sound like a decrepit denizen of a nursing home, for which I apologize. The right knee is healing from the fall in the grocery store parking lot due to a hole in the asphalt (fixed the next day).
The cat is sitting in my doorway because she is psychic and knows I am hurting. I just got an email confirmation for my sudden whim, a week-long Alaska trip starting in late July. Feeling infirm does not inspire confidence in my stamina for this trip. I haven't had a real vacation for something like a dozen years. I have already paid for the 13-hour bus trip to Kantishna, 90 miles inside Denali National Park, where I was once the baker for a season.
Staying there one night is a little rich for my blood at more than $400. I can't even really afford the tour bus that stops for lunch at the Kantishna Roadhouse. Instead I am taking the Park Service shuttle, $54 versus $159, and will pack a sack lunch.
I used to bake my signature chocolate chip cookie recipe for the guests, hiker lunches, and sack lunches for the guests' road trip out. I also produced all the baked goods, including pies or cakes and my sourdough bread for the lunch buffet.
Here is my chocolate chip cookie recipe:
The Best Chocolate Chip Cookies Ever
Preheat oven to 325; spread 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans on large sheet pan. Toast about 10 minutes, stirring them around a couple of times.
Remove and add 2 T. unsalted butter, stirring it into the nuts. Set aside to cool. Put the oven temp up to 350.
Measure 1-1/2 cups cake flour, if you have it. Otherwise use all-purpose.
(If all-purpose flour is used, the cookies are crisper --- it’s the protein in the flour.)
Sift with 3/4 tsp. salt, 1-1/2 tsp. baking powder.
Cream 10 T. unsalted butter.
Add 3/4 cup brown sugar and 2 T. corn syrup (the latter makes them chewier --- leave it out if you like them crunchier) and beat together until fluffy.
Add 1 large egg,
1 T. real vanilla extract (I made my own, brandy and a couple of Tahitian vanilla beans soaking in it.)
Beat again. Gradually add flour. Add 1 c. good chocolate chips (Guittard or something similar) or small chocolate chunks, plus the pecans. Use a rubber spatula to mix.
Lightly spray sheet or cookie pans. (I used parchment paper to line pans.) Drop heaping tablespoons two inches apart --- a melon baller works great for uniform cookie size. Bake 12 minutes, or only until edges start to brown. Let sit for a minute then remove to racks and let cool. This version makes more than two dozen cookies. - Joanna
If you ever need it, I have the original recipe, which is for 25 dozen. I made that many every night when I baked at Kantishna. The pilots would drop by around 1 a.m. after the bar closed for a taste of the raw cookie dough.

Nights at the Red Rooster

I read about chef Marcus Samuelsson’s reopening a Red Rooster restaurant in Harlem near 125th Street. For a period of about six months from 1979 into 1980, I sang three and four nights a week at the original Red Rooster on 138th and Adam Clayton Powell, working in a quintet with leader and trumpeter Bucky Thorpe; Don Pullen, who played Hammond B-3 on the gig but was best known for his years on piano with Charles Mingus; drummer Bobby Battle, who was also playing at that time with altoist Arthur Blythe; and guitarist Roland Prince from Antigua, who left to tour Europe with drummer Elvin Jones and was replaced by the late Ted Dunbar, teaching at Rutgers at the time. I was the only white face in the club most nights. It was a pivotal experience — the music was great, and I was able to stretch out on some of the tunes. Since several of the players had West Indian backgrounds, we would stray into a calypso or island-tinged original some of the time, but it was pretty straight ahead. The club was owned by Buster, a numbers banker putting his beautiful daughter/club manager, Pat, through law school at Yale. The crab cakes were excellent; I think the cook was from Baltimore.
There was Jock’s and another place across the street where organ duos or trios, including the likes of Jack McDuff and Charles Earland, would play. We would take our breaks and head next door for a listen, and vice versa.
By the way, I often took the subway to my gig, walking from the stop at 135th Street on St. Nicholas. I was perfectly safe although I was dressed up because they knew I worked for Buster. The gigs were long, five or six hours a night, and I would either get a gypsy cab home or Bucky and several of us would drive through Central Park in the moonlight. It was quite magical.
Up a block or so on the corner (139th?) and Adam Clayton Powell was a place that sold the best little sweet potato pies.
That was also the area of the Striver’s Row blocks. I was friends for a couple of years with the pianist John Hicks, whose three generations of family members shared one of those brownstones, which were designed by Stanford White. His dad was a very respected Methodist minister.
There were — and still are — other pockets of elegance in Harlem. Bucky, who was a retired postal employee, lived in a beautiful building on Riverside Drive with quite an amazing entryway. The band eventually dissolved because Bucky had diabetic complications. He had one leg amputated, but was still able to play with his stump propped on a bar stool. Then he got worse, and lost the other leg. We had several benefits for him. Somewhere I have the tapes.