I love cookies. I love to make cookies. I love to eat cookies. I love to share cookies. If cookies were a love language, they’d be mine.
It seems as though I have forgotten how something as ordinary homemade cookies can offer me a few moments of peace in a world filled with anything but peace.
For years, I made cookies every Sunday night during the school year. In the summer, we had them on Thursdays. Now I make them most Thursday nights or on Friday mornings before school–you know, because #cookiefriday.
When I started #cookiefriday with my class, I really thought it would just be that one week. Then it became a weekly tradition. Then I thought it would only be a one year gig.
This year I needed the tradition.
I needed the respite from the world that making cookies gives me. It’s methodical. And rhythmic. I am reminded of simpler times in my life–times when I took for granted that life would always be that way. At times, I am reminded of grandmothers and great-grandmothers. Of packing lunches and birthday treats. Of friends.
When I make Amish sugar cookies, I am reminded of my father-in-law and his love for his family. I miss him.
When I make snickerdoodles, I am reminded of a young mother of 3 whose heart was so sad that I didn’t even know it until much later when she told met that those random cookie deliveries meant the world to her. That they saved her.
When I make cut-out sugar cookies, I am reminded of my dad. For years, I had no idea that he loved those cookies and one Christmas I discovered his love for them. Now if I know he is coming, I make plenty for him to take home with him.
Making cookies of any kind, evokes a memory of someone for me. And offers me comfort. Although those cookies are often times a gift of love for someone, they really are about me and what I get out of making them.
Making cookies has healing powers for me. #justsayin’