When I was little, my grandmother’s house always had cookies. Sugar cookies. Smashed with a fork before they were baked. In an old glass jar whose lid was never screwed on correctly on the first try. Crumbly sugar cookie perfection. She didn’t bake them, but they were there. Homemade. For years.
I tried to bake them myself a time or two, but they were never right. I haven’t tried in years. Partially because “I can’t” do it, partially because in the time I haven’t had one, the mystique in my head has grown. I have this cookie I distinctly remember, but will it be the same twenty years later? Will I ever really know I got it right since it’s been so long? Would I even know it was wrong? No one else would.
Now I’m on a mission. I’ll make them. They’ll be just right when I do.