My mom taught me to bake. She taught me to bake along with teaching me much more. Everyone always raved about our cookies, but my mom always insisted there was nothing special about the recipe. But they were special, because they were homemade.
Growing up, seeing two sticks of butter sitting out on the counter always meant we would be making chocolate chips cookies. We would pull out all the ingredients, the bowls,the sifter, and the spoon that had a strong enough handle to withstand creaming the butter by hand. When I was little my mom would help me finish creaming the butter, as I got older we took turns.
When we would add the vanilla my mom would open the bottle, take in the warm smell of vanilla, then pass the bottle to me to smell. Whenever I smell vanilla I am transported back to my parent’s kitchen. Back to baking cookies with my mom and enjoying the small pleasures.
She taught me to wait until the cookies were golden, to be patient while they baked. But not to lose track of time and let them burn.
Baking cookies also meant sharing. These cookies came with me to school functions, to sleep overs, to friend’s houses. When I left for college, cookies my mom or I made always made their ways into friend’s hands. Over the years I have used these cookies to break the ice at summer stock and to make a bad day a little better.
I will always think of my mother while baking these cookies and I look forward to the day when my mom can teach my future kids how to make these cookies.
Backstage Baking 