There are not many things that I believe in this world. I don’t believe in God as I have known him. I don’t believe in heaven. And as a personal rule, I don’t believe in shoes, though I’ve often amended that belief for the benefit of society. But I believe in cookies. As a fiery-haired four-year-old, I used to stand on the seat of a backward chair, stretching over the counter to pour sugar into a bowl of what would be chocolate chip cookies. Or sugar cookies. Or butterscotch potato chip cookies, my personal favorite. I would “help” my mother, messily cracking eggs and squeezing way too much food coloring into a bowl of frosting. Looking back, I’ve realized how important those moments were.
I grew up over a bowl of dough. I still go home for a weekend every December to bake Christmas cookies with my grandma. Red and green cookies from the press, peanut butter cookies with chocolate kiss crowns, and sugar cookie Santas that always seem to lose their boots. Now, as a semi-adult, I have an affinity for what my mother calls “baking binges.” I’ll spend a night at home, scouring recipe books and Web sites for recipes. After I’ve amassed a significant collection, I’ll spend the rest of the week baking strawberry streusel bars and peanut butter cup brownies.
I can’t put my finger on what it is, but I know that cookies have magical powers. I’ve never met a person who doesn’t like cookies, and I hope I never will. I like to believe that there is a cookie for everyone, and I’d like to make them all. A three-dollar Hallmark card has nothing on a batch of Grandma’s-recipe ginger snaps, and nothing says “get well soon” like oatmeal raisin cookies. My facebook profile proclaims to the world that “I believe in the power of cookies.” I do.
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