The Kitchen

         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.