I can't think of anything that evokes in me the feeling of comfort like homemade cookies. It's not eating the cookies, but rather all of the senses that come to play when I am making cookies. The warmth from the oven on a cold day and the familiar whir of the Kitchen Aid mixer, new when I bought it but now considered vintage, evoke memories of years gone by, while firmly grounding me in the present. Familiar recipes, stained with the ingredients of yesterday read like a favorite novel. The sweet and spicy aromas dull today's anxieties and somehow hold a tender promise of happy days tomorrow. The anticipation of the smiles on the faces of those who sample the cookies makes my heart squeeze. I visualize young hands, old hands, and the hands of those between as they reach for yet another homemade cookie.
For so many years I have been sharing cookies with the people I love. Memories run through my head like a moving picture. I remember those years in Alaska when my children were but babies, the snow piled high on the ground, the bitter cold seeping in through the cabin walls, the wood cookstove burning hot, pans of cookies being placed in and out of the oven, and at last cooling on the table. They were then placed in a large Tom's Peanut Jar and I waited for the knock on the door that was sure to come. Our friends knew where to find the cookies, the warm fire, and a game of cards to help pass the long Alaskan winter.
I remember the times, over the years and in different places, when I gathered with friends and family in their kitchens, and we made cookies together. There was the chaos of growing children distracting us from our baking, confusion of too many people in the kitchen, dishes piled high in the sinks and on the counters, laughter inspired by the quick wit and unexpected humor of friends who know each other well, and solemn moments of sharing personal secrets with a trusted someone.
I remember the lean years when there were no friends living close by, no cookies or memories being made, but rather a hunger for what had been a tradition. I didn't have the money to buy the ingredients to make a decent meal and I certainly couldn't fill the house with the comforts of sweet treats made from scratch. The sad eyes of my children and the pain of those years will haunt me forever but also helps to remind me that something so simple is indeed a blessing not to be taken for granted. It has made me more aware of the pain of others and I look for those people so that I can share with them a few cookies, a warm smile, and perhaps something to make their days a little less painful.
I am thankful this year as I see the cookies lined up, cooling on the table, and watching the various varieties stack up in my freezer where they will be readily available for me to share as the opportunity presents itself over the holidays. Perhaps a few will make their way to the doors of neighbors, some will make it to community gatherings, the grandkids will run through the kitchen and grab yet another (before their parents can tell them they've had too many), and the grown children will enjoy them with a cup of coffee or hot tea.
Sometimes, like what happened yesterday, someone will randomly pass through our back door, into the kitchen, and exclaim, "I smell cookies!". We will exchange smiles and I will pass them a plate of cookies.