“Maryn, where is the cookie dough?!” my mother yelled as I hid behind the kitchen counter, hunched over the large mixing bowl of addicting sweetness. She turned her back for a second to answer the door and that’s all the time I needed to snatch the bowl. I was caught red-handed, or should I say, dough-handed.
“But, Mom, I just wanted a little taste…” I muttered through a mouth full of dough and chocolate chips.
This was the quintessential treat from my childhood. The smell of cookies escaping the warm oven and perfuming the kitchen with aromas of vanilla and chocolate. It wasn’t my fault that I was entranced. She always had a fresh batch waiting on the cooling rack when we’d come home from school each week. It was her “I love you” to us kids. And my eating every morsel was my “I love you, too.”
To this day, I always request it when we visit Grandma Lulu and I carry on the tradition for my little guy. It’s one of the few recipes that I have memorized by heart.