I will not liken love to a cookie but the meaning of the cookie production is pretty close. Why do I do it? Why do I wake up one day and decide to make thousands of cookies and take them to my friends at work, my friends at the pool hall, and even my neighbors that I don't really know? I started to think about it as I was baking Paul's cookies. Paul (Chocolate Chip with walnuts, which means now I get to call him Paully Walnuts, sweet!) is a guy at the pool hall who remembers when I used to bring in tons of cookies, a gallon of milk, and we would all eat cookies until we were as round as we were tall. I forgot those days. I mean sure, I've made the cookies for co-workers, or my best friend LeAnna, up in Oregon, when she was feeling blue (Oatmeal only, no raisins, extra rum). When Paul reminded me of back when I brought in the cookies I remember being at the pool hall, bored, and just telling him out of nowhere, "I feel like baking cookies." It's just an offhanded remark that might make me a candidate for a mental institution but he does what I love people to do, he just goes with it. "What kind of cookies?" Chocolate chip. I'll fund the project if you throw in walnuts. Sold!
So, with funds in hand I buy all the stuff at the grocery store and I drive home where my mom is home watching television and she asks about the grocery bags and I tell her I'm bored and I'm going to make cookies to take to the pool hall. I ask her if she'll chop the walnuts and she does what I've always loved my mother to do, she just goes with it. Of course, she'll chop the walnuts, she just needs the nuts, a bowl, and a paring knife. By this time I have the production down, eight pans rotating in and out of the oven two at a time, and soon I have an enormous stainless steel mixing bowl full of cookies covered with foil. I have enough money left over to buy milk on the way back to the pool hall and take them in. At the time Bob Jackson is running Tommy's and he's startled to see me bring in the cookies and milk, but everyone goes nuts and he does what I like a person (who could kick me out for bringing in outside food) to do, he just goes with it. It wasn't the enjoyment that everyone did what I wanted them to do, it was that I could do something that I learned from my upbringing, from the teaching of a farmer's daughter, that was unique to me that made so many people happy at once. It was strange, sure, but fun and out of the ordinary and for once being a straight forward girl from the Midwest with down home values wasn't like being an oddity from space.
That was the kind of reception I had when I moved from Ohio to Arizona and started meet people. I was admittedly abrubt and I swore ALOT, as that was the language back home, (F**kin' A!) and I told people exactly what I thought when really they were looking for the standard answer. How are you? Fine. Beth, how are you? I could use a nap. *blink* *blink* I hadn't learned any manner of finesse and, well, I miss those days when someone says something stupid and I just let them have it!! It felt good, but lacked popularity. Nowadays, my inner editor writes out my next lines, then hits the delete button, then writes it out, then deletes it and my shoulder-side diplomat whispers in my ear that it wouldn't go over well if I really gave this person a piece of my mind. How would I ever get that piece back?? Back then I found that the only person with a thick enough skin to take all I could dish out was LeAnna because she was an Italian Chicago/New Yorker whose family, frankly, made me look like Romper Room, still do. LeAnna and I would get into shouting match fights, storm off in opposite directions, and the next day it would be friendship as usual. I never was one to hold a grudge for long and neither was she, a trait we still share. She broke me of the swearing with, "You kiss your mother with that mouth??"
So, when Paul remembered the cookies I was brought back to the days when I was my mother's daughter. I'm still my mother's daughter, but without my mother, if that makes sense. For instance, I have to think of what she would do. I can't just come home and ask her what she would do, or call her from Texas and ask her what she would do, or call her from Oregon and ask her what she would do, or call her from San Francisco and ask her what she would do. There are no new instructions she can give, no way for her to figure it out or bounce ideas back forth with me, or just tell me, "Honey, I don't know, but I'll pray for you." But most of the time after I called my mother from these places, a few days later a shipping box would show up (And really, who loves a brown shipping box more than me??) and inside would be her Russian Tea Cakes, or her Carrot Cake, or best of all, her Brownies and it would be like she shipped all that was good about home and delivered it to foreign doorsteps. That's what the cookie means. It's doing something unexpected and good for those I care for and love. I'm horrible at telling people how I feel about them, but in the tradition of my people (Midwestern people who are too blunt for their own good!) I show them how I feel by doing something for them. When I called my mother from Texas, actually, she showed up two days later. She'd hopped into her car and drove from Phoenix to (If you've ever made the drive across the Texas Panhandle, you'll know what a truly heroic gesture my mother made. I wouldn't torture people I hate with that drive.) Dallas to come get me when she knew things just weren't going to get better. I'd never felt so loved in my entire life. It was the best surprise--ever. It's nice to be rescued, y'know?
All I have of her is what I carry with me, a limitless supply of baking pans, well-used stainless steel mixing bowls, and the love for a good surprise. I can't bring everyone over to my house and feed them, make them feel warm and protected, or even solve their problems but when I forget what day of the week it is because all the days seem to melt together, or I feel like I'm rowing with all the other slaves I can make some cookies, buy some milk, and make my own holiday. Surprise!
So, with funds in hand I buy all the stuff at the grocery store and I drive home where my mom is home watching television and she asks about the grocery bags and I tell her I'm bored and I'm going to make cookies to take to the pool hall. I ask her if she'll chop the walnuts and she does what I've always loved my mother to do, she just goes with it. Of course, she'll chop the walnuts, she just needs the nuts, a bowl, and a paring knife. By this time I have the production down, eight pans rotating in and out of the oven two at a time, and soon I have an enormous stainless steel mixing bowl full of cookies covered with foil. I have enough money left over to buy milk on the way back to the pool hall and take them in. At the time Bob Jackson is running Tommy's and he's startled to see me bring in the cookies and milk, but everyone goes nuts and he does what I like a person (who could kick me out for bringing in outside food) to do, he just goes with it. It wasn't the enjoyment that everyone did what I wanted them to do, it was that I could do something that I learned from my upbringing, from the teaching of a farmer's daughter, that was unique to me that made so many people happy at once. It was strange, sure, but fun and out of the ordinary and for once being a straight forward girl from the Midwest with down home values wasn't like being an oddity from space.
That was the kind of reception I had when I moved from Ohio to Arizona and started meet people. I was admittedly abrubt and I swore ALOT, as that was the language back home, (F**kin' A!) and I told people exactly what I thought when really they were looking for the standard answer. How are you? Fine. Beth, how are you? I could use a nap. *blink* *blink* I hadn't learned any manner of finesse and, well, I miss those days when someone says something stupid and I just let them have it!! It felt good, but lacked popularity. Nowadays, my inner editor writes out my next lines, then hits the delete button, then writes it out, then deletes it and my shoulder-side diplomat whispers in my ear that it wouldn't go over well if I really gave this person a piece of my mind. How would I ever get that piece back?? Back then I found that the only person with a thick enough skin to take all I could dish out was LeAnna because she was an Italian Chicago/New Yorker whose family, frankly, made me look like Romper Room, still do. LeAnna and I would get into shouting match fights, storm off in opposite directions, and the next day it would be friendship as usual. I never was one to hold a grudge for long and neither was she, a trait we still share. She broke me of the swearing with, "You kiss your mother with that mouth??"
So, when Paul remembered the cookies I was brought back to the days when I was my mother's daughter. I'm still my mother's daughter, but without my mother, if that makes sense. For instance, I have to think of what she would do. I can't just come home and ask her what she would do, or call her from Texas and ask her what she would do, or call her from Oregon and ask her what she would do, or call her from San Francisco and ask her what she would do. There are no new instructions she can give, no way for her to figure it out or bounce ideas back forth with me, or just tell me, "Honey, I don't know, but I'll pray for you." But most of the time after I called my mother from these places, a few days later a shipping box would show up (And really, who loves a brown shipping box more than me??) and inside would be her Russian Tea Cakes, or her Carrot Cake, or best of all, her Brownies and it would be like she shipped all that was good about home and delivered it to foreign doorsteps. That's what the cookie means. It's doing something unexpected and good for those I care for and love. I'm horrible at telling people how I feel about them, but in the tradition of my people (Midwestern people who are too blunt for their own good!) I show them how I feel by doing something for them. When I called my mother from Texas, actually, she showed up two days later. She'd hopped into her car and drove from Phoenix to (If you've ever made the drive across the Texas Panhandle, you'll know what a truly heroic gesture my mother made. I wouldn't torture people I hate with that drive.) Dallas to come get me when she knew things just weren't going to get better. I'd never felt so loved in my entire life. It was the best surprise--ever. It's nice to be rescued, y'know?
All I have of her is what I carry with me, a limitless supply of baking pans, well-used stainless steel mixing bowls, and the love for a good surprise. I can't bring everyone over to my house and feed them, make them feel warm and protected, or even solve their problems but when I forget what day of the week it is because all the days seem to melt together, or I feel like I'm rowing with all the other slaves I can make some cookies, buy some milk, and make my own holiday. Surprise!
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