Homemade Cookies Is Where the Heart Is

The Oreo. The Chip Ahoy. The Toll House. The Nutter Butter. The Macaroon.

Everyone knows what they are. Walk down the aisle in any grocery store and there is no end to the selection. They come in different shapes, sizes, boxes, bags, containers, and tins. Where do you start?

The ones with nuts? The ones with jelly filling?

Obviously, there are personal favorites. Sometimes they go on sale. Some even hawk “reduced fat” or something that may imply they aren’t as bad for you as they used to be. So, you eat ten instead of four and figure you did yourself some good.

Walk past the Windmills and they may remind you of Grandma’s somewhat stale jar full. I never liked them. But the Salerno Butter Cookies and Maurice Lenell Pinwheels were good.

In the end, though, they’re still store- bought, and even if there is an old-fashioned, sweet looking fat guy in an apron on the label, daring to invoke the word “homemade”, BEWARE, they were not made in anyone’s home.

And that’s where the insanity needs to stop. A homemade cookie is more than just baked, sweetened, and spiced dough. It’s an experience. It’s a memory. And you just don’t get that on aisle five.

First, it’s a commitment. In our youth, it was mom finally agreeing to make them and you having that “we’re going to Disney” kind of reaction. The time between her agreeing to do it and serving time always seemed to take way too long. “Mom, when they gonna’ be done?” was asked multiple times in that half hour or so. The only thing that took longer was the time between trying to fall asleep and Santa arriving.

Next, the process. The ingredients. The sticks of butter. The vanilla stuff that didn’t taste like vanilla. The bag of chocolate chips anxiously waited to be broken open and spread like seeds in a garden. Then, the whirling sound of the electric multi-speed hand mixer and the treat before the treat – getting to lick the beaters. It was a weird feeling and an odd shape, but the raw dough was popular long before it became popular.

Then, the smell wafted through the entire house. You could be in any room and know they were getting close. To this day, you still take in a deep breath, think it, and sometimes have to say out loud, “Man, does that smell good.”

Soon afterwards, it happened. Like a magical hot box, the oven door opened and the sound of the metal grates rubbing against each other would ring like the recess bell. Everything stopped, games would end, TV shows were ignored, and children charged upstairs or down, trampling anything in their path and skidding just short of the counter, eyes wide open and mouths smiling.

And then it was time. They would be just soft and warm enough to keep the delicious chocolate melted and gooey without burning the roof of your mouth. It was like eating a million dollars. Predictably, the cookie’s lifelong companion, the glass of cold milk, would wash down just enough to leave a mustache. It was, and still is, a perfect combination.

But I came to realize the real pleasure was the mental snapshot. For as much as the perfectly rounded, warm tray of genuine satisfaction delighted the senses, it is the memory of mom looking on and knowing that only she could create such happiness. She was always the last to have one, if there were any left, and someone else always got the last one. She never seemed to mind though, as it was more gratifying to observe than it was to participate.

Either way, that homemade cookie got ingrained in our bellies and our minds and is a rerun that never gets old.

This column originally appeared in the Times, a Shaw publication.