The cookie monster
has hit our house—not so much the one that devours cookies, but the one that
bakes them. For three weeks now, I have been consumed each weekend with making cookies,
primarily for Jacob’s benefit. He gets them in his school lunch every day, but
I also admit that I have them after my lunch and dinner. I remind myself of my
late mother-in-law, who used to say, “Judy, dear, just a little sweet with my
coffee.” I don’t have the coffee, but I sure like topping meal off with something sweet. I’ve noticed
that I almost never hit my chocolate stash if I have cookies on hand.
I started, of course,
with chocolate chip cookies—to me, that’s the quintessential cookie. But when
those disappeared, I made oatmeal raisin, because Jacob admitted to a real
liking of them. Those are almost gone now, so today I made the dough for
molasses cookies. That led to an interesting exchange. Me: “Do you like
molasses cookies?” Jacob: “What’s in them?” Me: “Molasses.” Jacob: “What’s
molasses?” How do you explain molasses to a thirteen-year-old? I’m sure if I
let him sniff it, he’d say, “No, thanks. I’m not eating that.” But the cookie batter
smells and tastes so good. Yes, I confess I licked the beaters and the spatula.
So now I have to
bake them, which is tricky in a toaster oven. It heats too hot and fast, and I
have to adjust. Made stuffed eggplant this weekend, and the top got all crusty
and dry—too hot too fast.
While it’s fun to
bake cookies for a teen, I think often these days that raising a teenager—or loving
grandchildren—is fraught with perils that I never thought of when my kids were teens.
I know I’m inclined to be a worrier, but danger seems to lurk everywhere. It’s
not unheard of for Jacob’s school to be on lockdown, and while I’m glad
authorities are so cautious, I can’t help but be alarmed each time. Surely a
shooting won’t happen here—but that’s what the people of Santa Clarita thought.
On Facebook I see
too many notices pleading for help finding missing teens. I know a lot are
runaways, and I ache for the unhappiness that must cause them to make such a
dangerous decision. But we also hear too much these days about sex trafficking,
and I wonder how many of those kids have been outright kidnapped and sold. A
horrifying thought. If Jacob is a bit late or plays basketball on the
schoolyard at dusk, I can conjure up horrible thoughts. My other grandchildren
are in a way fortunate that I don’t live close enough to worry about their
every move.
But as I admitted,
I am a worrier. I worry a lot about my dog Sophie and almost never let her out
in the yard unless I’m at my desk where I can watch her. My fear? That dogfight
people will come snatch her. When I see notices on the Neighborhood News or
some such of dogs needing a new home, I almost always write and recommend that people
register the dog with a recognized rescue service which vets prospective owners
carefully. I’ve heard that dogfight guys will send their cute girlfriend to ooh
and aah over what a good pet a dog will make, only to flip it as a bait dog.
(As I write this, Sophie is sitting on the deck, across the yard, watching me.)
Probably I am a
person with exaggerated fears. Sometimes I blame it on my childhood on the
South Side of Chicago, where I was raised to be cautious—well, yes, scared.
Other times I attribute my fears to the over-active imagination of a writer.
Now if I could only translate those fears into best-selling mysteries!
On the other hand,
there’s that old bromide: better safe than sorry. Be cautious folks—there’s a
world of meanness out there. Having said that, I have to admit I cling to my
belief that there is so much more good in the world than evil, and in people.
It’s just those aberrations we have to watch out for.
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