A Tough Cookie
written by: LT Parrish
Raised on the streets of Roxbury, my mother grew up in a family of ten where ‘first come, first served’ was more than a byline. To compensate for her petite frame, she spoke sharply and loudly so no one missed her words or meaning. A tough cookie, she brooked little nonsense from her younger siblings, dressing and shuffling them off to school or whipping up a quick meal of beans and franks. She learned to be efficient in her own mother’s kitchen because free time and leftovers vanished faster than a clump of snow dumped on a hot sidewalk.
After moving to suburbia, my mother quickly distinguished herself from the other mothers who lived among the rows of postage-stamp-sized houses. An easy feat for a feisty five-foot brunette who moved with the speed of an electric beater set on full blast and spoke with the tact of a swinging baseball bat. Direct and efficient, my mother didn’t let minor details like measuring first before cutting or asking the opinions of others because that would slow her down.
Besides — her way was the right way.
Such was her approach to making Christmas sugar cookies — don’t deviate from the plan, negotiate ingredients, or become distracted during the assembly process because she had it figured out. Baking was a simple process — stir, roll, cut — and one in which my mother didn’t care if I lopped off an angel’s wing or amputated Santa’s leg, just as long the cookies were prepped, which meant dousing the dough with Christmas-colored sugar crystals so she could slam them into the oven.
When the oven buzzed and my mother plunked the hot trays onto the stovetop, the moment was akin to the kid who asked Santa for a real pony only to get a coloring book about horses. Before me laid trays of missed expectations. Rows of misshapen Santas and wingless angels, their charred backsides and blackened edges, stared back accusingly as if to ask — what had we done wrong? Even the color had drained from the sugar crystals; the sharp margins melted and seared in the darkened dough. To add insult to injury, the cookies tasted as bad as they looked — burnt and bitter.
They were nothing but a bunch of tough cookies.
For years, we baked our too-burnt, too-tough cookies because tradition demanded, but once I matriculated to adulthood, I stopped making them because I could.
But then something changed. Someone offered me a homemade sugar cookie, and it looked nothing like the ones from my mother’s kitchen.
The cookie’s underside was pale yellow, and instead of faded sugar crystals, the cutout was decorated with a layer of translucence glaze and buttercream icing.
And the taste.
Sweet, buttery and light. Unlike our scorched cookies, I ate more than one.
Was my mother aware of this so-called sugar cookie, or perhaps the recipe was a recent development?
Like a scientist with irrefutable data, I approached my mother with proof.
“Did you know this is how a sugar cookie is made?” I pointed to the glossy photo in a holiday magazine. “And that they can look like this?”
“Of course I did.” She grinned, the corners of her mouth twitching.
I was confused. My mother enjoyed baking and cooking; did she have a particular vendetta against sugar cookies?
“So why burn them?” I asked.
Nonplussed, my mother shrugged and said, “No one asked me to make a second batch, did they?”
- A Tough Cookie - December 15, 2024
- Pieces of Her - November 10, 2024
- Mustang - May 24, 2024
