I always loved to get away to the good ol’ country to my grandma’s house. It was a haven for me. Grandma was my anchor. After the army and before my drug addiction got out of control, my affection for confection did. At 20 years old, trying to readjust my life plan, it was to grandma’s place that I ran for refuge when I came home that fall.
The night I checked in to Shay Grandma, she gave a nice homecoming:
“Here’s some oatmeal raisin cookies; you can have three. The rest are for the kids. I counted them, so I’ll know if you eat more.”
(“Pff. Counted them? Right! You can’t scare me,” I said to myself.)
Those delectable delights were love at first bite. When she went to bed, I kept eating until only 3 or 4 were left from the three dozen grandma made. It felt out of my control to stop. Even the thought of taking candy from children didn’t stop me! (Hey, don’t judge me until you are sitting in front of a plate of grandma’s cookies!)
When grandma woke up, she looked in the fridge and I thought, “Oh no, here it comes! She’s gonna turn me into dust! Please God don’t let her find out, and if she does, have mercy on my soul.”
“Holy crap! Who ate all the cookies?”
I waited about two minutes, prayed to God she wouldn’t kill me, and went to the kitchen. “Gram, it was me, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. They were like crack. I couldn’t stop myself they were so good!”
The laughter rolled like thunder between Gram and Aunt Kathy. Grandma even had to call my mom and tell her. It was embarrassing for me, but grandma was so happy that someone loved her cooking so much. That was 18 years ago, and to this day, every Christmas, Grandma still says, “Liberty, I made crack cookies just for you!”
Photo by Fotolia/RoJo Images
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