Growing up my sister and I cooked a lot with my mom. I remember Jenn fussing because she was too short to see into a pot on the stove (the requirement for using the stove). But that didn’t stop her from pulling a stool over to the counter, so she would not be left out of biscuits or pretzel making.
I don’t really remember the first thing I baked but I’m sure it went something like this. I am small, my hands are just big enough to hold the cookie cutter but not the rolling-pin. There is anticipation and wonderful buttery smells as they bake and then the proud moment when this culinary master piece (a lopsided sugar cooking) is carried to my father on a napkin. With much love and pride he bites it, declares it the best cookie he has ever had and that he can’t believe my sister and I made them.
Since them I have moved on to more daring creations, like home-made ginger bread (who knew it was such tough dough!) and ice cream cakes. I have become quiet good at anything with fruit- tart, pie or cobbler but there is a little girl in me who wants to make cookies.
I must confess that I haven’t made them in some time. I trying to be a health conscious 30yr old I can’t justify two dozen of anything lying around. But that child wants to remember helping Jenn, seeing mom smile or hearing dad say that its wonderful. So I meet myself in the middle, making oatmeal something cookies and for a moment I am that little girl; happy, creative and whole.