The Baking of a Cookie

Who doesn’t love a warm chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven? I always knew what beautiful gift was coming my way when a sweet, sugary smell wafted through my house. I’d be in the middle of playing or wasting my life away trying to buy the latest outfit in club penguin and suddenly a cookie would appear by my side, steaming on top of a crisp white napkin. I would take one bite and the dough would melt into my taste buds. The sweetness of the chocolate mixed with the slight saltiness of the dough molded together to make a perfect melody in my mouth. It first crumbles when I bite into it and then fades into soft sweetness. This simple dessert felt like a little package of joy to me. All wrapped up together, all the ingredients collaborated to create the sense of receiving a warm hug. Nothing gives better comfort then a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. They’re almost as if love you be expressed as a food: something kind and familiar that you can always fall back on. Something that tastes differently depending on the person who made it.

As I got older, my mom taught me her recipe and, man, did I feel like an adult when I scooped flour or cracked open an egg by myself. She would constantly remind me to “wash your hands and make sure the eggshells don’t get in the batter.” Of course, I would respond “I know” but really, I had forgotten to check. Whenever I would try to pour, she’d be watching over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t spill. That didn’t help anything because by the end of the process flour and sugar would be covering the tables. She would cluck her tongue and hum and ha but in the end we both would be left with a sparkling clean kitchen. As I got more used to the recipe, I became braver and more daring. But my mom still insisted on her being there and helping me as I made them. What if I burned the house down or worse? What if I burned myself? I frowned at this. I was sure I could do it on my own but when my mother thinks her baby needs her, she won’t leave her side. It wasn’t until I turned nine years old that my mom started trusting me more and more. I was able to use the mixer by myself and then even use the oven on my own. The recipe card seemed ancient, the card browning with faded writing. I believe it’s been passed down through our family. I always had trouble stirring all the ingredients together. My weak little baby arms could never make all the dough perfectly mixed. Usually, I had to ask my mom to step in. She’d shake her head and cluck her tongue but in the end the batter was properly stirred. Then, she’d leave me to do my thing.

I wasn’t the kid to sneak cookie dough until I was older. At an early age, my mother instilled in me a fear of salmonella, and my little brain took it to the extreme. I thought that if I digested the tiniest sliver of raw dough, I would immediately drop to the floor dead. Then there came a day where I was at a friend’s house, and she had the wonderful idea to make cookies. Slowly, I noticed how different her recipe was from ours. Not as much flour. A little bit more butter. Despite warnings from her parents, she tasted the cookie dough. Being the naïve child that I was, she did it, so I did it too. I bet that half of the dough was gone by the time we put our first batch in the oven. From then on, my horizons expanded. I could eyeball the recipe instead of following every direction perfectly. I could eat as much batter as I want and not die but enjoy its sweetness. I never had to ask my mom for help when I made them anymore. I tried new recipes searching the internet for ones that best appealed to my taste. It was a new episode in my season of life.

Now, I have the same freedoms and more. I’ve grown and now cooking, and baking are more of a necessity than ever before. Right now, I still live with my parents, so I don’t have to pay or make my own dinners, but that future isn’t very far away. Last time I baked cookies; my mom wasn’t even in the house. When she came back, she was shocked. At first, I thought it was the mess. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the neatest. But she said that it was just nice to see me making something. I guess I hadn’t realized how long it had been since the last time. I had gotten caught up in school and my own goals that I hadn’t even thought about baking in forever. But someone needed me. My sister was organizing a café night at our youth group, and she needed some treats to serve with the drinks. I volunteered because I could. I took on this responsibility. She depended on me. I don’t have that experience very often. Usually, I depend on me to get my homework done and to work to complete my goals but now that I’m older I have other people that depend on me now. That’s when I felt truly independent because not only was I able to choose for myself, but other people trusted me. My mom trusts now that I would be able to make a life for myself, to leave the nest, to find the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. I can hear the timer going off in the back of my mind. Soon, the cookies will be finished baking and it will be my time to eat them.