Momma’s Cookies

My sister and I would affectionately call them rocks as they came out of the oven, having not yet cooled. They would sit on the baking rack in neat little circles, looking for all the world like award-winning cookies that we would see in the Pathmark down the road when we went shopping. And the smell was intoxicating, no matter the type of cookie represented. Be they oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip — Momma made only the two types — they smelled like little pieces of heaven.
But try as she might, Momma couldn’t stop them from being solid as rocks in the end of the process. And because she was my Momma, I would always try one first. The trick was to eat it from the side, to nibble off a small piece of the corner and hope it didn’t chip my tooth. Then my sister would get empowered and try the same technique to often mixed results, but her teeth remained intact too. Score one for us. Continue reading “Momma’s Cookies”

On rainy afternoons I play golf. I stand tall and swing like my life depends on it, watching the ball carefully as it flies through the air and generally lands where I want it to land. Then I look out the window and I realize the neighborhood kids are watching me through the window. Oh, the glory of playing Tiger Woods 2010 on the Wii system with the shades pulled back. I guess it’s okay, though. I mean, I did have good form.