Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Yum. Love me some cookie dough. It's like a drug...sit down with a pile and it's gone before you know it. There's nothing better than a good cookie dough high.
My oldest, who fancies herself Betty Crocker, started rummaging through my bare, bare cupboards last night. "Mom, what do we have? I want to make cookies for my friends at school."
I tried a dodge. Not a good one, admittedly, but you gotta give me some credit. "Honey, I honestly don't know. But you can't cook anything until this kitchen is clean and the dishes are done."
There, I thought. That ought to take care of that.
Something happened at that point that I'm still trying to explain. A rush of adrenaline; a chemical imbalance of some sort, because my 11 year old daughter whipped through that kitchen like a caffeine-riddled Wonder Woman. I'd never seen my child so driven to do anything with such vigor in all her young life. Color me impressed, but I was still adamant that no cookie dough should be formed within the four walls of that room. I looked on helplessly as she started singing her way through the gathering of the bowls and measuring cups. I started to panic, then got a crazy stroke of what I thought was genius.
"If you can find the recipe, and the ingredients, you can make cookies."
Knowing full well the ins and outs of my meager supply of cookbooks, I resigned myself to a victory dance. Ha! There's nothing in there she can make because of the dearth of supplies. I win...I win!
Well, while I was busy doing my little dance, she stole away to her room and came back out with a black-ring bound book she'd constructed in fourth grade. A book of recipes. Compiled by 9 year olds. FULL of goodie recipes I couldn't begin to imagine existed. Oh, damn.
My resolve was beginning to extinguish; I was out of ideas. Flailing around, I exclaimed, "Honey, if you think you can find something in there you can make, all the more power to ya. I just have to say that I really don't think we have what most of those recipes require."
Now, to anyone who might think I was being a bit overreactive, then; you'd be right on the money. I was. I've never consciously tried to stop my children from developing any sort of skill or talent. And my daughter IS very talented. In oh, so many ways. But, see, I'm in Journey mode. The mode that takes every ounce of self-talk I have within me to maintain. I love that child, but I also know myself.
I retreated downstairs and left her to her own devices. I was stewing in my own juices, those that guilt from trying to discourage my child and worry about becoming the Cookie Monster could only concoct. After about 15 minutes, I went from simmer to warm, and began to believe that she'd given up.
And then, she brings to bowl, complete with spoon, to me. "Here, mom...taste this!"
Aw, crap. She'd made butter balls...a simplistic little recipe that calls for flour, powdered sugar, margarine, and a wee bit of salt; cook, and then roll in more powdered sugar. Delectable. I was in trouble.
Approximately about half a dozen little butter balls worth of dough later, I was hating on myself, big time. I had just snarfed a good portion of what she wanted to cook. And it must've showed, too, because she said to me: "Mom, it's okay. I still love you!"
Ah, the unconditional love of children. What music it really is to the ears. Drowned out, of course, by the Tuba of Self Loathing in surround sound.
But the Force must be strong on this Journey. It must, because I ate two of her finished products (yum!), went to bed wondering at the beautiful little gift that God had given me in that girl, and feeling content. I had made such a fuss, and yet, I lived through it, just to start today off right. And it continues to be right, with good and correct choices. There must be more to this Journey thing after all.