Stories

My mother was a wonderful cook when I was little. I remember her and my Grandmother feeding the extended family every Sunday afternoon after church to well that at the end of the meal, we would all congregate in the living room just to sit and talk after eating with most of the men sleeping and the kids watching cartoons late into the evening. That was until her first bout with chemo. It seemed as if her sense of taste just vanished. 

The first time I noticed that something was seriously wrong was when I was volunteered to read to the underprivileged kids at the Commerce library. A couple girls, Myra (sp), the Gary triplets, and I were to come dressed up in Halloween costumes to read while the kids munched on cookies and juice. I was talked into bringing some cookies, sugar cookies. 

The evening before, Mama and I gathered up all the ingredients on the kitchen table. ( Sugar, butter, flour, eggs, and salt) I had to work on an English paper that night, so Mama took over the brunt of the labor while I sat at the kitchen table to write. We talked for a while, we mixed for a while, I proofread for a while, she sat at the table and talked to me, and just bonded over tea and how my teacher at the time had taught her in high school. When the cookies were mixed up in the bowl, I took over to partition them out on the pan and to do the actual baking. As I spooned out the last cookie ball, I noticed that there was an awful lot of sugar left over. When I mentioned this, her solution was that we should just sprinkle the remaining sweetness over the cookies for a nice crunch. The cookies went in. A half hour later, they came out perfectly. They smelled wonderfully. I thought that is was a shame that I was forbidden to eat a single one since we had made just enough for the kids to have the next day. The cookies were cooled and stacked in a basket just as Myra wanted. 

You know me. I cannot turn down a cookie. I love LOVE them for breakfast. On the way to school the next day, temptation got the better of me. As I drove to town in the Camaro, I reached into the back seat and snatched a couple.....There was no way of describing how quickly I spit the first bite out. There wasn't enough time for me to even roll the window down. I had spit the crumbs all over the window, the steering wheel, and my lap. The reason there was so much sugar left over was that she had mistakenly mixed up the salt for the sugar and couldn't taste her mistake. 

I couldn't bear to tell Mama that her cookies were horrible. They all ended up in the river where 441 passes the Commerce Dragstrip. Before getting to school that morning, I made a quick stop at Ingles for some deli cookies that looked at least similar to hers incase she decided to stop by and see her son read. (Which she did). The other mothers complemented Mama on her cookies and I could see her smile that beautiful smile she had as they talked. Her salt lick cookies never got into the public and now you are the only other person that knows.