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...
Comments
Post a Comment