Cookie Dough

Somehow cookie dough had become a test of her motherhood. She looked at the chocolate chip cookie dough, rife with uncooked eggs, and then at her 4 year old twins. Kelly, the bolder of the two, asked, “Can we have a bite?” and both sets of innocent brown eyes turned up to her, waiting.

She had to decide now, no deliberating. She hated decisions like that. Was she the kind of mom who let her kids eat raw eggs? Or was she the kind of mom who made them wait until the cookies came out of the oven, safely cooked to a germ-free perfection?

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Food

The food was on the table. People were crowded around it, seated before the good china, the good silver, the turkey, the cranberry sauce. No one was talking. No one was looking at the food.

Everyone’s eyes were on Jeremy, who had arrived with Aunt Rosie’s daughter Tina. He had a conductor’s baton in his hand, an iPod plugged into his ears. He leapt on the coffee table and conducted the music only he could hear. He wobbled a bit and stopped conducting to dissolve in huge sobs and tears. Tina grabbed . . .

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Turkey san

Don  approached the credit card payment line with a turkey san, a bag of chips and a bottle of water. He squeezed in at a table with three people he didn’t know and unwrapped the sandwich. The bread was soggy. So he removed the soggy bottom and ate an open faced sandwich using just the top hunk of bread.

He left his camera and computer on the floor next to his chair and walked 8 steps to grab a couple of napkins. When he returned, both camera and computer were gone. The three people at the table claimed not to have seen anything.

Don unsnapped the Baretta from his ankle. He . . .

Blue Plate Special

The old man and his grandkid went to Mother’s Cafe every day at noon. The old guy always ordered the Blue Plate Special. Didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was cheap and there was plenty of it. The little boy, who looked about 6, liked to pick and choose. He could read the numbers next to the little photos of the food and knew to stay within his price limit.

They came in one day and took their usual seats at the counter. The kid wanted macaroni and cheese. The old man refused, saying, “You know that cheese plugs you up like a cork.” Celia, aka Mother, stood before them like a fortress behind the counter. She said, “You better listen to your grandpa, Timmy. He knows what he’s talking about.” . . .

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Rye bread

Picture this: four yakky old gals having dessert and coffee after a movie at the local bakery/restaurant. About 10 PM we start to leave and there by the baked goods stands a handsome fellow in a white chef’s shirt. He offers us a free loaf of the day’s bread, which will otherwise become unusable day-old bread to the business.

I pick a loaf of rye. Others grab the cinnamon raisen and the sourdough. I made the best choice. I stick my nose in the open top of the bread sack and inhale the wonderful aroma of rye. Delightful. Then . . .

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Cereal

Ted looked at Kayla, slouched over her Cheerios, hair disheveled as if she’d tossed and turned all night.  He hadn’t slept either. He bent down and hugged her small 8 year-old shoulders from behind. Just touching her made tears spring to his eyes.

“I know, baby, I know,” he cooed, “but you’ve got to try to eat your cereal.”

He heard the shower start. “Grandma will be out here soon and we need to be ready to go when the limo comes.” The limo from the funeral home, he didn’t say. He didn’t know how to protect Kayla from . . .

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When I’m sick, I

A cold, the flu, stuff I know will pass.  Yeah. No fun but you know it will go away in a few days. When I’m sick, I lay about and watch TV I don’t like because there isn’t enough energy to do otherwise. I eat chicken soup and wear my pjs all day.

When I’m starting to feel better, I want a greasy hamburger. Probably my body’s way of attempting to correct the imbalance caused by three days of jello and soup. Sometimes . . .

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Bread

Even in June, sudden snowstorms were not unusual this high up in the mountains. Berte gathered his sheep and drove them toward the cabin. He put them in the small fenced area in the shelter of an overhang where they would be protected. In the cabin, he opened the underground food storage and found frozen bread, onions, and potatoes. The cabin also contained sacks of beans, rice, salt, and other survival goods. He melted some snow and put a pot of beans on the now toasty wood burning stove. . . .

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Digital

 You’d think a penny pinching tightwad like Sam would hate to spend money eating out. It’s just one of his many inconsistencies that he loved eating out. What he hated was tipping the waitstaff. When digital dining hit town, Sam was the first one seated in a booth placing his order from the digital menu and bypassing the need for human service in making his order. Sam thought this was a big advance on . . .

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I remember Christmas

I remember Christmas as a child. We had a fragrant real tree in the living room with presents. Interesting, exciting, inscrutable presents.

We had lots of people over for dinner and set the table with the good china. Sometimes we even had an extra table for all the people. The food preparation took days. The olives and stuffed celery always disappeared the moment it was set out, because the aroma of turkey and rolls and pie coming from the kitchen drove everyone to spasms of hunger.

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