There’s something infinitely soothing about baking a batch of
homemade cookies late at night while the world sleeps. I sift, measure, add, and
stir, and each step of the process slows the beating of my heart and gives me a
sense of control over an oftentimes uncontrollable world. I shift the flour, baking
powder, and salt in one bowl and then slowly and methodically cream the eggs and
butter with the sugars in another. Then I blend both batches together and mix and
mix until my wrist is aching from the exertion- no electric mixer for me; that’s
cheating.
Next I knead in the chocolate chips, like small raw pearls, into the dough. The heat of the
oven escapes as I open it. I place the pan of raw cookies inside like an offering
to a god. Do your magic, God-of-the-Oven, turn these chunks of raw dough into cookies
as golden as a summer morning.
When the cookies turn the soft tan of a tabby cat, all crisp on the edges and gooey warm in the middle, a small quiet victory
pushes all my thoughts away from politics, death, taxes, bills, and hurt. There
is just this moment and the cookies, soft and hot from the oven, the sweet sugared
chocolate melting over my tongue like a prize.
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