Inner Workings discussion

So, enough with my continual self-discovery essays. Let me contribute something fun, light, amusing.

Tonight I made snickerdoodles for the kids. I haven't made them since I was... I don't remember. But here is what I do remember about snickerdoodles.

I was 9 years old and just dying to use my brand new Junior Cookbook.

Every day: "Mom, when are you going to let me make something?" Finally, we settled on snickerdoodles. I did everything - turned on the oven, cleaned up after myself... measured everything myself... made the cinnamon-sugar to roll them in...

There's a picture of me holding a baking sheet full of cookies, toothless grin, so proud of myself.

What my parents didn't know was that they were creating a monster.

I made snickerdoodles once a week (at least) for... maybe a year. I don't think my parents or brother care if they ever see another snickerdoodle again, 26 years later. Tonight, even I probably won't eat a single cookie.

"Hey Beanie, why don't you try a new recipe?"

"OK, Dad!"

Whatever it was, my mother made everyone eat every last bite, good or bad, whether it was for the first or 200th time.

"There's a picture of me holding a baking sheet full of cookies, toothless grin, so proud of myself."

This is so great, I can see it.

My daughter Sarah made some snickerdoodles last summer - devine! It was my first sampling.

I was about 9 or 10 when my parents thought I was old enough to stay home alone for a couple of hours. I gave the two-pound puppy a whole can of Alpo, then she took a squirt on the living room floor. I turned on the country station and baked in my easy-bake oven until all of the packets were gone. Mom's new waffle iron sat on the counter. I lifted the lid, then did some more mixing. The batter ran over the grids and oozed onto the counter top - then I plugged the waffle iron in and closed the lid. By the time the authorities arrived, our puppy had a row of bowls on the floor (alpo, baby cakes, cheese squares and waffle batter soup) and a full tummy.

Momma cleaned the kitchen. Dad escorted me to my room.

haha that's great Bonita!

There should be a book on Kitchen Childhood Memories. I wonder if there is one...

That's a great story, Bonita, and you know what, it *totally* makes sense to me...!