by Tan 9/28/26
I could pull the covers up over my head thinking about what’s going on in our country, in the world. My hands could bleed from constant wringing about what may happen next, or how long we have left as a race with or without artificial intelligence interfering. I could ruin my day dwelling on the fact that I continue to be ostracized by my limited and hurtful siblings.
So, what can I do besides meditating, journaling and praying to be OK in this moment? When in doubt or I’m feeling down often the panacea to peace, however temporary for me is to bake cookies!
Chocolate chip, mostly.
Often when I feel jangled, I finding it calming and satisfying to make a batch. The process is meditative, though precise. I feel like I have some control. I measure accurately, often using a food scale, and follow a tried-and-true recipe, with extra egg yolks. I deftly wield a metal, spring-loaded Pampered Chef cookie scoop (right tool for the job) and position the dough in neat rows on parchment. Bake for 12 minutes at 325, turning the trays halfway. I set them out to cool, then transfer them to racks. Depending on their destination or purpose, I load the alligator (more on this below), plate and wrap them, or put them in the freezer.
I’ve probably made thousands. I don’t have actual stats, but it’s safe to say I’ve made cookies on the average of at least once or twice a month, for most of my life. At first, helping my mom at a very early age. By ten or so, I’d be making them solo. I’d make them for my boyfriend turned husband. Then more often when my kids were growing up, as a lunch box or after school snacks.
Making them has become an extension of who I am for outside of our home, too. I bake cookies for church coffee hour, fairs, our open mic/coffee house, for my book club. I bake them in appreciation of neighbors who’ve helped us tackle some mechanical issue on our travel trailer, lent us tool, or those who’ve watched our cat.
I bake them for plumbers, dirt diggers, painters. Even though they get paid (handsomely) for their job, a plate of fresh cookies for the crew is an extra thank you.
People seem to appreciate homemade cookies to nibble on. Some coo and make yummy sounds. “You make the best cookies,” they say. It is nice to hear.
My late father used to quip, “Nothing is better than a home baked goodie.”
I, of course, am a cookie snob. I can’t imagine buying store cookies except maybe Oreos or Milano’s. They’d be hard to replicate. I also blanche at the cost of singular cookies I often see for sale. Recently, I saw a solitary chocolate chip cookie (homemade or bakery made?) at the Big E, priced at $5.50. My batches could make bank if I chose to go into business. But no.
Years ago, my late mother-in-law gifted us with a fantastic cookie jar that my husband and I still enjoy today. It is loud, as in it is a bright green and yellow alligator holding a red sign that says, “Cookies”. But it’s also audibly loud. There’s no sneaking a cookie with this cookie jar. When you lift its head back by the snout, it says in a deep, loud Louie Armstrong-type twang, “Yummy, these cookies suuurrrre taste good!”
It in no way matches our kitchen décor, but we will probably never part with it. Over the years of love and wear, the hinge on its mouth broke. Now we must lift the top half of its head off to reach in for a cookie. We laugh because sometimes the voice studders, “Ya-ya-yummy, (like a rapper). These cookies sure taste good!”
My adult kids and their partners meander their way to the alligator when they come to visit, so I try to keep it filled for their arrival. When my husband finds it empty, he’ll say, “There’s a distinct lack of cookies in this house.”
I get the hint. Even if it’s not for therapeutic relief, I might make a batch just to fill the alligator.
