To Grandmother’s House We Go

I don’t remember many things about being a little girl. Only the events that seemed life or death back then stick out in my mind: learning how to ride a bike, attempting to build a tree house, and suffering through two painful weeks of karate lessons spring to mind. Even those incidents are fuzzy images like someone put a kaleidoscope over my memory; I can see through it, but everything looks distorted. There is only one exception to these broken, and faded recollections. Every Sunday until I was ten years old my mother loaded me up in the van and drove the seemingly endless 30 minutes to drop me off at my grandmother’s house.

As we bumped and thudded along the country roads I became excited to spend a few precious hours with my grandmother. We had secret adventures together that everyone else thought only existed in fairy tales, and the magic of our visits thrilled me. Bubbling over with excitement I let out a sigh of relief when the small, white house came into view. Flinging the car door open I tripped over every crack in the sidewalk as I scurried into the house. Immediately, I became intoxicated by the robust scent of cinnamon and peppermint. I stood in the doorway taking deep breaths of the heavenly scent as I waited for the slow, measured sound of grandmother’s footsteps. Thinking back, I wonder if the reason I loved spending time there was because I was always reminded of Christmas. The scent brought back a feeling of togetherness and familiarity.

Once grandmother was in sight I rushed into her arms that scooped me up into a safe cocoon of love. Nuzzling my nose into the soft folds of her neck I breathed in the smell of her sweet perfume and silently prayed for time to stand still for a few hours. Clinging tight to her body she brought me into the dated kitchen where I reluctantly let go to sit on a high stool next to the counter. We did the exact same thing every Sunday, yet I never became tired of the routine. We baked.

For one day out of the week I became the master chef of a fine Italian bakery, and the old-fashioned kitchen became a high tech workshop. As my assistant, grandmother laid out the finest of ingredients, and I mixed and stirred until my weak arms cried out in protest ,and my entire face was covered in a thick coat of flour. With a careful preciseness I gingerly spooned out the exact amount of cookie dough that was necessary. I made sure every sprinkle of cinnamon and sugar made it’s way to the right place. Nothing could be left to chance. As a feeling of accomplishment surged through me I let grandmother place the doughy circles in the oven for exactly 28 minutes. A minute off would be an unforgivable mistake.

I could stay away only a minute or two before I felt the inescapable urge to check on my creation. This went on through the entire baking process until the last five minutes, which were spent sitting motionless in front of the stove watching the puffy pastries rise and brown as the heat warmed my cheeks. At exactly 28 minutes I frantically called for grandmother to take my work of art out of the hot furnace. Surely one second longer and my masterpiece would be ruined.

Oh, the triumph I felt as the first whiff of cinnamon goodness flooded my senses. I was sure no one had ever made such delectable goodies. It was torturous waiting for the delicious treats to cool, imagining the first bite of the warm dessert at my lips. My mouth watered and I pleaded with grandmother to let me have just one tiny bite.

Finally, after several minutes grandmother put three cookies on each of our plates and with it was served a large glass of milk. We discussed many important topics over our yummy handiwork such as what I wanted Santa to bring me, and what my favorite color was that week. Grandmother always listened to my answers as if I really were a famous Italian chef and I loved her with all my heart.

I figured I would never taste anything so delicious as those cinnamon cookies, and I was right. Unconditional love changes the way our senses perceive everything we do. Love can make an unattractive person look like a runway model or a five year old’s poem sound like it was written by Charles Dickens. Without love we are blind people just bumping into things. Were my cookies really that delicious? No, of course not. They were a horrible lumpy mess, but the love that was put into making them was irresistible.

The End :)