When my kids were little, I was baking so much that I was always running out of artificial vanilla extract. It’s not that I’m a particularly good or talented cook. I’m pretty average. It’s because cookies are how I continue to live as a mother.
I’ve stuck to basics like chocolate chips, peanut butter, or oatmeal raisins, not only because that’s what my four sons love, but because the ingredients are cheap. They’re always on hand, except for that pesky forgotten vanilla extract. Eggs, flour, sugar, baking powder, cream (if my bank account allows it), and margarine (if it doesn’t). When we were going through many tough months, I stuck with oatmeal cookies because they were actually made better with margarine and were also disguised as a healthy option.
Cookies are not a daily occurrence in our house, but they are a weekly occurrence. On rainy days when my kids have to walk home because they don’t have a car, I bake cookies. I baked them cookies when I felt in my bones that they were missing something important that I should be providing them. My house is filled with the smell and warmth of chocolate, peanut butter, or oatmeal raisin, and perhaps most importantly, warmth. During the cold, wet months of November and December, our house never feels warm enough. Every time the kids sniffle, every time I touch their cold cheeks or toes, the guilt of not being able to pay the heating bill overwhelms me. So I preheated the oven with the door slightly open. So I softened the butter and I put the eggs in hot water to bring them to room temperature. I put on my apron. I say, “Who wants cookies?” And every time, I’m touched by how excited they are to get cookies from me. They were so grateful for this small gesture, this sweet apology, because I felt like I had failed them. They always forgive me and they always want my cookies.
I bake cookies to help them feel normal and to help us feel normal as a single parent living near the poverty line. I bake cookies for their classroom because seeing them proudly holding a jar of cookies, their straight little shoulders held high under their backpacks, fills me with a kind of selfish peace. It’s how they feel good, it’s how they feel seen, good and normal. They must be generous children. They must be kids holding cookies.
The same goes for when their friends come over. I distracted the little guests, drawing their eyes away from our small rental, the worn carpet, and the too-cold kitchen with a plate of warm cookies. My oldest son, a serious man with a cute face and a frown, always looked relieved about the plate. Always worried that his friends might notice the five of us living in a place that might be suitable for two or three people. Or we never had a car, a lot of money, or a new coat. When I handed him the plate, he looked at me and realized what those cookies were. A desperate love for him and his brother and our family. Commit to keep trying to do better. Provide comfort.
Our cookie habits have changed over the years. When they were little boys, they asked for eggs to be beaten, or shapes to be made from dough, or sprinkles to be sprinkled. They turned on the light in the stove and sat cross-legged in front of the fire, watching the biscuits expand and take shape, shouting “That’s mine” and counting how many days they needed to see the biscuits.
As the older boys, they ate the cookies by the handful before even putting them in the cookie jar. Not looking at me, headphones on, just eating. Being men, they ask me to bring them cookies when I visit. They all have their favorites. They don’t want to share them with anyone anymore. They knew what these cookies meant to me without having to talk about it. They forgive me. With or without artificial vanilla.
Jane McGuire is a contributing writer for Romper and Scary Mommy. She lives in Canada with her four boys and teaches life writing workshops where someone cries in every class. When she’s not traveling as much, she tries to organize pie parties and outdoor karaoke with her neighbors. She will sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” at least once, but she’s open to requests.
