My little sister Chere was making cookies with Grandma Cooper.
Now, when Grandma Cooper got into baking mode, it was serious business. She and Chere had already made a big batch of chocolate chip cookies and were halfway through a round of oatmeal raisin. The kitchen smelled amazing — like warm butter and melted chocolate — and Greg and I couldn’t resist.
Greg’s my cousin, and back in those days, we were partners in crime. As Chere and Grandma busied themselves with mixing and baking, Greg and I would casually sneak into the kitchen when their backs were turned. We’d swoop in, snatch a couple of cookies, and then swoop out like cookie bandits. It was a flawless operation — or so we thought.
We probably ate at least a dozen chocolate chip cookies (and yes, they were wonderfully warm and gooey) when we overheard Grandma ask Chere how many cookies they’d made.
Chere thought for a second, then said, “Well, we had six pans of twelve… so, 72, I guess.”
Grandma Cooper gave her a sharp look. “It doesn’t look like we have that many. Maybe you counted wrong.”
Greg and I started snickering and giggling from the other room, trying (and failing) to keep quiet.
Chere wasn’t having it. “No, I’m pretty sure we had six pans of twelve.” Then we heard her exclaim, “Where did all the cookies go?”
At that point, Greg and I couldn’t keep it together anymore. We were practically falling over laughing, so we decided to make a quick escape outside before we got caught.
But after a few minutes, the temptation got the better of me. I decided to slip back inside for just one more cookie. I crept toward the kitchen, peered around the corner, and saw Chere and Grandma at the counter. I dropped down onto all fours and began crawling toward the kitchen table.
Without looking up, I reached my hand toward the top of the table, feeling around for a cookie. My fingers brushed against one, and just as I was about to grab it — WHACK!
My hand was slapped hard enough to make me jump! My heart nearly exploded out of my chest.
I looked up and saw Grandma standing over me, her eyes narrowed. Through the dining room window, I could see Greg doubled over, laughing so hard he was practically crying.
“Bobby.”
Uh oh.
I stood up slowly and turned to face Grandma. She had that look — the one that told you, you were in deep trouble. I stood frozen, heart pounding, waiting for her to say something. Greg’s cackling from outside wasn’t helping.
Finally, Grandma said, “You know better.”
She was right. I did.
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled.
Then Grandma surprised me. “Well, if you’re going to eat them as fast as we make them, you’re going to help us make them — to slow you down.”
Wait… what? My punishment was baking more cookies? I was so confused I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified.
“What are you standing there for?” Grandma said, tossing an apron my way. “Let’s get going.”
I caught the apron and stared at it for a second. If you didn’t already know, wearing an apron while cooking always made the food taste better. At least, that’s what Grandma taught us. And honestly? She was always right.
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