Linzer Augen

In my grandmother Eva's kitchen in Kent, the Christmas tins came out in late November. Gretel always said you couldn't call it Advent without at least five kinds of Weihnachtskekse, and Linzer Augen were always first. They were her test batch, the cookie that told her whether this year's ground almonds were fresh enough and whether the butter was behaving.

Linzer Augen means 'Linzer eyes,' and the name is literal. You cut three small holes in the top cookie, dust it with powdered sugar, then sandwich it over a layer of ruby red Ribiselmarmelade, the sharp, jewel-bright currant jam that is the only correct filling. When you're done, three little windows stare up at you from a field of white, and the red underneath looks like something precious glimpsed through frosted glass. They're the most beautiful cookies in any Austrian tin, and they know it.

The dough is a close cousin of Linzer Torte dough: ground almonds worked into butter and flour with cinnamon, cloves, and lemon zest. It's sandy and fragile and wants to be handled as little as possible. If you've made shortbread, you understand the principle. Cold butter. Light hands. Rest the dough before you roll it. The nuts make it tender but also make it crack if you rush. Don't rush. These are Christmas cookies. You have all of Advent.