I must admit; I have never backed a cookie in my life. However I have always been fascinated by the way my grandmother made her cookies. She always had a special talent for mixing different ingredients into a smooth and gracious pastry. She had a certain kind of softness over her, though her hands showed unmistakable proof of hard physical work that she had performed in her life. She was the daughter of a farmer and life had not been kind to her. In her time, farming meant that your list of duties grew exponentially with your grow of years. It meant working ‘the good hours of the day’ and living up to a strict Christian moral. Later, she worked as a maid in the houses of rich people until she was undernourished in the middle of the war and needed to return to the countryside.
Yet, none of her experiences had any impact on the way she treated those around her. Humble to all authority, hard to herself, but open and warm to everyone else. She was the one mixing different kinds of characters into a smooth and loving household. She gave everyone the right amount of attention and made everybody feel heard when there was an argument. She managed to keep up the household when she was responsible to bring in extra income when the normal income was insufficient and still bake cookies on a Saturday afternoon.
As a kid, I never thought about any of this. The cookies were just a certainty whenever you set foot into a second home. However, when you cannot feel, touch or smell these experiences anymore, it becomes a part of a mystery. All of a sudden, I see myself as a kid who feels the magical of stepping into the modest apartment of my grandparents. Everything is an adventure, excitement hits me and filled with emotion I take a bite and bam! The magic is gone. Wrong cookie, not grandmothers quality, actually no taste at all. What can I say, not every cookie crumbles the way you hope it would.