Baking Cookies
take me back to when I was 12 please
Grandma rolls the dough carefully for her
famous sugar cut outs, loved by all neighbors.
Scolds me for stealing too much raw cookie dough but chuckles at the way I decorate.
Her cranberry shirt is covered in flour
and every roll is perfect for cutting a half dozen.
My 12 year old self doesn’t realize how precious these candid moments are: talking about boys and stealing just a little more dough (sorry grams).
She doesn’t realize how often she’ll think about the smell of vanilla extract and talking about wish lists while grandma rolls another perfect patch of dough.
How grandma was the safe place I ran to
when I couldn’t tell my mom girlish secrets.
How she encouraged even the most far fetched dreams with the attitude of if you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way to make it happen, if not, you’ll find an excuse.
Twenty-one years later, I take off my engagement ring to roll a batch of cookies. Tradition in Pittsburgh holds that there is a cookie table at every reception.
My fiance is ever the Pittsburgh boy.
I sit with my best friend/maid of honor- I roll and she decorates. I smile when she adds wavy lines to a cookie that spell out Alice on a coffin.
Chuckle as we both sneak some dough as she explains “baking price is I get to scrape the bowl.”
I think back to Grandma in her flour covered shirt
trying to impress her with childish talk
Remember her patience and how she reminded me:
love is the secret ingredient, not only in cooking
but with everything in life.
for P.M.V, with all the love in the world. I miss you .
