Good as Grandma's

“Why did Grandma not leave behind a recipe?” I shouted in frustration. 

“Maeve, will you be quiet? It was your choice to bake them.” My older sister Meghan rolled her eyes. She was sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, periodically glancing up from her phone to say something that wasn’t remotely helpful. She was wearing a sweater and pajama pants, even though it was late in the afternoon already. Her long brown hair was falling over her shoulders, and dark circles were painted under her eyes.

There had been a rainstorm that started yesterday, and because it was winter, the sun was already starting to set. I had been here all day, trying to recreate Grandma’s cookies. I could taste her warm, buttery and sweet dark chocolate chip cookies in my mind. Grandma always bragged about her “super special” secret ingredient, but I could not remember what it was no matter how many different cookies I tested. There were trays and trays of different tests, different ingredients, slighter different ratios. I was going to run out of ingredients by the end of this. 

Grandma’s cookies weren’t just cookies, they were my childhood, they were filled with love and happiness, and Grandma’s warm, wide smile. She had gray, curly hair and round glasses on her round face. Grandma was the one we’d cuddle up with and read bedtime stories with. It’s been a month since we lost her, but it feels like forever.

“Her ‘secret ingredient,’” Meghan made sarcastic air quotes with her hands, “could be rhubarb for all I care.”

I pretended not to hear her and put my latest batch of cookies into the oven. None of the cookies so far tasted anything like Grandma’s. They were too sweet, or too dense, or just missing something. This new batch didn’t look anymore promising than the ones before.

“You do know how important these are to me, right?” I said aimlessly. These cookies were the embodiment of what Grandma was to me. Warm, sweet, perfect.

Meghan shook her head but ignored me. 

I left the kitchen to take a break. I’d already tasted so many cookies today, I was going to be sick. None of them were right. I paced around the living room. I still had a white apron tied around my waist and my short brown hair in a messy bun. What was Grandma’s secret ingredient? I asked myself over and over again. I needed her here. I tried to remember back to when we’d bake them together. 

The first time Grandma asked me to be “her little helper,” I was six or seven. I was barely able to keep myself in one place without knocking over a bowl, or breaking an egg. Grandma would just smile and fix whatever I broke. I remember when I was ten, and decided to eat a spoonful of sugar. In her surprised state, Grandma threw some flour at me to stop. I had laughed and eaten another spoonful. She grabbed the spoon and flung it over her shoulder. 

As sternly as she could muster, and with a deep voice, she had said, “we’re meant to be making cookies here!” I had laughed so hard at her pinched eyebrows that I fell off of the stool I was standing on.

Now I grin at the memories, until I remembered why I was making them alone. I sat down on a faux leather couch with my head resting on my hand, and continued to pointlessly rack my brain’s memories for the secret ingredient she used. 

“A little sprinkle of this,” she’d say, tosing in ingredients, “and a dash of this!” Grandma would do a little dance, and I would imitate her, giggling.

I groaned. I missed Grandma too much. I needed these cookies. I heard the oven make a ding noise, which meant my previous cookies were done. I put on some mittens and took them out. Meghan smacked on her gum and stared at me. After tasting small bits of all the cookies, I shook my head. None of them were right. 

“Hey, do you want me to help?” Meghan asked gently, spitting out her pink gum.

“Why?” I wasn’t sure if I heard her correctly, “sure, I guess.” She got up and examined the trays of cookies I had made.

“Listening to you struggle to bake makes my head hurt. Plus, Maeve, these are all wrong,” Meghan said, pointing at them.

“Believe me,” I said back, “I know.”

“No,” Meghan nibbled on different cookies, “you’re missing cream cheese.”

I rolled my eyes and handed her the cookies that had cream cheese in them.

“No,” Meghan said, “the ratios in these are completely off.”

“Why don’t you show me how it’s done then?” I threw my hands up in the air.

Meghan tried to calm me down, “you have to be patient-” 

“I've been doing this for hours!” I said.

Meghan calmly got out another clean bowl and started putting ingredients in. I took a few deep breaths and watched her, burning in my own frustration. 

“Oh c’mon,” Meghan smirked at me, “you knew the cookies better than I did, help a little!”

Begrudgingly, I measured out some of the dry ingredients and put them in the bowl. 

“You need a little more flour,” Meghan said, while cracking two eggs into a separate bowl.

“How do you even know?” I was very curious now. Meghan almost never joined us in making cookies.

Meghan shrugged, “I used to watch you guys make cookies,” she paused, then added, “and the secret ingredient was cream cheese.” 

I was impressed and also frustrated she didn’t tell me earlier. Instead of saying a petty comeback, I just focused on whisking.

Meghan and I continued baking, both using her memories and mine. The thoughts of Grandma kept us focused on making cookies. When we finally got them into the oven, the cookies just felt right. Meghan helping me now, was better than later, though I do still wish she helped me earlier. I had an extra wide grin on my face, these cookies smelled delicious. We both sat talking and bickering at the kitchen island.

“Grandma used to say that her secret ingredient was love.” Meghan dramatically dragged out the last words while rolling her eyes.

I laughed out loud, then I paused, “Meghan?”

“Yeah?” She said.

“Thanks for helping.”

“No problem,” Meghan smiled somberly, “I wish I baked more when Grandma was alive. I do miss her.”

“Me too.” I said.

We sat in silence for a bit longer until the cookies were ready. The smell of them made my mouth water. When we got them out of the oven, Meghan and I each devoured one. They were chewy on the inside, crunchy on the edges. Perfect, gooey, chocolate.

“Just as good as Grandma’s.” I stated.

“Just as good.” Meghan agreed.