The phone would ring, and off would
go my mother, around the corner, leaving a trail of flour dust as she waltzed
towards the future conversation. Knowing fair well that my mother was a talker,
I had it down to a science of how many drive-by’s I could fit in before I’d get
caught, as I swept the kitchen for potential hazards on my way to the cookie
dough. One, massive, partially melted, white plastic bowl contained the goods,
and as a child, it was my duty to get a taste. My mother, being the retired
Seattle Police detective that she was, must have had eyes in the back of her
head, and probably the sides too, for how quickly she sensed a disturbance. So,
between my young, light feet, and her eagle eyes, we had a friendly competition
of family cops and robbers anytime cookies were in the making.
The
counter laid strewn with various sizes of bowls, measuring cups, teaspoons,
tablespoons, and chocolate chip cookie dough ingredients. Spattered flour was
everywhere, littered like white chalk outlines of previous bodies but instead only
outlining my criminal footprints. From the other room, I’d hear my mother’s
chest-heaving laughter, and know I had time for at least one more dip into the
gooey- goodness.
On
the rare occasion (but more frequent than I like to remember), my mother would
stride back into the room just as my hand had fed the last bit of dough into my
smirking mouth, and I’d get the usual ‘Kate Marie!’ scolding before I scurried
off back into my rightful room. ‘Sorry!’ I’d yell accompanied by a burst of
laughter as I ran from my mother’s strong stance and attempted straight face.
Known
far and wide for her renowned “Jodie Cookies”, I grew up stealing some of the
most coveted cookie dough in the county, and it was all from my own kitchen.
💕💕💕💕
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