An Ongoing Amicable Argument in the Kitchen

“Back at it again, Anne?”

“You know it.”

“How many days are you going to try for?”

I shrug. “‘Til I figure it out, I guess. Or the semester ends.”

“And you’ll keep on going over break?”

“Probably. We’ll still have a few weeks left ‘til Christmas.”

“Well, I’m not complaining. Save some for me if you take them over to the guys, okay?” Without waiting for me to respond and with a giant sweeping motion as she hoists her backpack over her right shoulder, my roommate Kennedy is off for her night lab. BIO 350 or something crazy like that, where she does all these crazy science experiments that don’t make any sense to me. I listen to her explain them anyway, though. Me, I’m in for a night of baking and then band.

Looking down at my mixing bowl, I survey my progress. Butter, brown sugar, and two eggs, creamed together into a lovely brown goop, the stuff that all baked good dreams are made of. Salt. Baking soda. A teaspoon of vanilla (more or less--my hand slipped and I dumped quite a bit of extra in). There’s a measuring cup of flour waiting for the critical last step next to the mixing bowl, along with several dirty glasses, and my roommate Nora’s latest project for art class, a ceramic gerbil. Cleaning off the counters is good practice but not entirely realistic in a college dorm kitchen.

Here’s where the guesswork begins. I open the cupboard above the stove and survey my options. Cinnamon, allspice, mint, nutmeg, more vanilla, almond extract, ginger, lemon--I’ve tried them all in various combinations, but none of them are quite right. My other options aren’t promising: cumin, curry, basil, oregano, garlic salt, and an empty container of bay leaves. I toss the empty bottle into my recycling bin and return to the decision before me. My hand hesitates between the lemon and almond, and then a knock at the door makes me climb off my stepping stool with a grumble.

It’s Marcus, trombone case in hand and a pink snow hat with a green pom-pom on top rammed over his head.

“You know, if you’d grow out your hair, you wouldn’t have to wear hats like that.”

“You know, if you didn’t play oboe, you wouldn’t need to buy reeds. Can I come in?”

I hold the door open wider so he can squeeze his broad frame through the door. “Yeah, but I’ll be baking ‘til band.”

“Works for me. I need to finish a project for American Lit.” He sprawls on the mysteriously stained couch and begins digging for his laptop.

I go back to my tiny kitchen and the ever frustrating spice cabinet. “When’s it due?”

“11:59. But I only just finished finding my secondary sources, so I might ask Kramer for an extension.”

“Please. You have six hours, and you’ve read all the books.” Back to the spice cabinet. Lemon or almond? I close my eyes, and I’m six years old at my grandma’s kitchen table. She has a box of Christmas lights in one corner, and the table is somehow covered with flour even though we only poured it into the measuring cup. 

“The special ingredient,” she explains, “is a family secret. I’ll tell you when you’re a grown-up, okay? Then you can make it for your family, but right now, it’s all mine.”

I agree, and I turn my back as she fiddles with her extensive spice cabinet. Half an hour later, we sit together and crunch on the best cookies known to humankind, crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside, and full of that mix of spices I can’t quite place, sugar, and butter, and--

“Cinnamon,” I declare, retrieving the nearly-empty bottle from the top shelf.

“Are you still on that cooking thing?” comes Marcus’s voice from the couch. There hasn’t been much typing going on.

“Haven’t figured it out yet, so yeah,” I call back. Maybe if I double the cinnamon from last time, then add in lemon. How much lemon, though? Enough to balance out some of the sweetness without making it super noticeable. A teaspoon? Or just a dash accompanied by a prayer that luck is on my side?

Suddenly I get the feeling that I missed something. “Marcus, what did you say?”

“I said, do you ever get mad at her?”

“Who?”

“Your grandma. How easy would it have been to tell you her secret?”

I dump in some lemon without measuring it but forget the prayer because of Marcus. “No, not really. I mean, I don’t get mad at her.”

“Why? Seems kind of manipulative, making you come back for the recipe and then not telling it.” He’s off his computer now, lounging in the tiny doorway, peering into the mixing bowl.

Now it’s time for the flour, so lots and lots of mixing. “I guess it’s a way for me to connect with her. She’s passed, yeah, but we used to do this every year, so it’s like I’m having a conversation with her, like one of those fake arguments you have with little kids where she’s teasing me but I play along, so it’s funnier for both of us.”

I wait for Marcus to make a joke or offer a sarcastic “Deep,” but he just nods and goes back to working on his project for American Lit. This time, he actually types.

And I start dolloping cookie dough onto the baking stone my grandma left me. Soon I’ll pull them out of the oven, and Marcus and I will gobble a few before heading back into the cold for band, leaving the cookies to cool next to Nora’s gerbil. Nora and Kennedy’ll scarf a few when they get home, and I’ll distribute the rest to my friends in class tomorrow.

As soon as I get rid of them, it’ll be time for a fresh attempt. Because I know, even as I slide the stone into the oven and adjust the finicky knob that’s almost falling off, that these won’t be just right. They’ll be fine, great even, but not my grandma’s. And that’s okay, because we both know I’ll try again tomorrow and the next day until my grandma’s decided that she’s done teasing, the argument is over, and I’m enough of a grown-up to figure out her secret ingredient.