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,
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