Burnt Cookies

         She says, “Go get your hair cut. I want to be able to see your eyes when I take Graduation pictures.”

         I watch her slide her feet into a pair of plain black sandals. Through the window behind her, I can see that it is raining. She calls up the stairs to my sister, and reaches for the gold handle of the front door. She pauses here for a moment, then begins to suggest that I start the first batch of the cookies she was going to make. She catches herself. We both know how I struggle in the kitchen.
         
         She rewords the thought. “Why don’t you just mix the dough? I’ll bake them when I get home.” She knows I won’t set a timer if I use the oven, and hates it when the cookies are overdone. I raise my eyebrows slightly, and we exchange a knowing expression. Then she marches into the kitchen and I follow along behind her.
         
         She pulls a recipe book off one of the low green shelves. Inside the front cover is a handwritten recipe, neatly printed in blue ink. She drags her finger down the list of ingredients, explaining the order in which I should mix them. Her description is slow and patient, like I’m five or six years old, but in this particular situation, I appreciate it. Sugar is a wet ingredient, she reminds me. The comment jogs my memory, and I find myself thinking about how I retained so little information from Culinary class last semester. Her explanation ends.
         
         She gives me a last glance and collects my sister. They leave.
         
         I size up the situation in the kitchen. The ingredients are scattered across the counter in a disorganized fashion, but I know where everything is, because I was the one to unload the groceries that afternoon. I slide all of the ingredients to the right to free up some space. Then I go to the laundry room where the mixer is stored.
         
         The mixer is red and sits up on a shelf that bends under the weight. I climb on top of the washing machine and lift it down. Then I hoist it onto one him, and bring it back to the kitchen. The phone rings as I set the mixer down on the counter. I don’t answer it, don’t even check the caller ID. As I plug in the Kitchen Aid, I hear a telemarketer’s robotic voice mutilating my last name on the answering machine. I turn my attention back to the task at hand. I start mixing.
         The measuring spoons are missing, I discover, as I try and add of vanilla extract. On most occasions, I would just guess, but baking isn’t one of those situations where guessing is allowed. This is why I don’t bake. It’s the sport for the type of people who also measure the water they’re boiling for Kraft macaroni and cheese, for people who set the timer when they make toast.

         But I know the person we’re making cookies for is important to her. I keep looking. I find the spoons in the back of the drawer.

         The mixing process is slow because I get distracted too easily. I periodically walk away from the mixer and entertain pointless thoughts, such as why it’s necessary to pack down the brown sugar so firmly when measuring. Or why I bothered to wash my hands after handling the eggs, since I will undoubtedly eat the cookie dough raw anyway. I adjust the speed on the mixer for no good reason, sliding the latch back and forth, watching the wet ingredients blend efficiently.

         Adding the flour is tricking, so I pour in two cups at a time and then move away for a while. I keep the mixer covered with a rag so that I can pretend that the flour isn’t escaping and assembling on the kitchen wall. I can hear the radio playing in her bathroom. She isn’t home to listen to it, of course, but I leave it on anyway. In the living room, the television is also on. I have no interest in the baseball game that is on the screen, but I am enjoying the background noise.

         I add the chocolate chips without even attempting to measure. They speckle the pale dough, and a few tumble off the edge of the bowl and onto the yellow tile countertop. The only ingredient left is the coconut. I leave it on the counter, undecided as to whether or not it really belongs.

         I taste the dough and consider the flavor. I’m almost certain that they’re better when she makes them. She will come home and adjust it as necessary. Then she’ll probably put me in charge of baking them, even though she knows that I won’t use the timer and will most likely forget to take them out before they’re too brown. I begin to wipe up the sugar and flour that has cascaded across the tile and onto the floor.

         After a few minutes, I consult my watch. Before too long I will leave to get my hair cut so that she can see my eyes in the Graduation photos.