Raisin Cookies of Christmases Past

I know if I tell you that my grandma’s Christmas cookies have magical powers, you might be highly skeptical, but the truth of the matter is, her raisin cookies, though beyond delightful, are in fact able to take you to a place you thought you’d never be in again.  My name is Gordon LaCostra and I have been a baker for as long as I can remember.  

When I was a child, I stood in my grandma’s kitchen as she prepared for the holidays.  Nothing was quite as splendid as helping her create a magical landscape of holiday treats as she would smile down at me, my hands covered in flour and my mouth filled with chocolate as we mixed a wide variety of treats that would grace her table.  No one could resist her confectionery creations.

“Hey there Gordy, time to make my raisin oatmeal cookies.” She would wink at me as she put the ingredients into her bowl for mixing. 

“Yes grandma.” I would carefully measure the raisins to be put into the batter. Though I was not fond of raisins back then, I knew my mother and father were, so I would be sure to do exactly what she said. 

“You mama called them fairy flavors when she was about your age.” She would smile as she turned the mixer on, “They are my special confections.”

When Christmas dinner was finished, Grandpa Mumphery would clear the dishes from the table.  He would wink at her and return with the plate of raisin oatmeal cookies.  Without a word, everyone would take one from the plate. For the next hour or so everyone at the table was quiet, aunts, uncles, cousins, and anyone else who ate one of grandma’s cookies.  Young children were excluded however and so I never got to sample what all the older cousins and adults were sampling. 

“Gordon, look what I found.” Barbara waved a piece of yellow paper in the air.  

“What is it?” I asked as I took a rack of cookies out of the oven.

“It’s grandma’s recipe.” She squatted down next to me.   

“Which one?  She had so many.” I stand, putting the rack on the top of the stove. 

“Her raisin oatmeal.” My wife replied, holding out the paper.  

“Are you kidding me?” I yelped as I snatched the paper from her fingers.

Grandma Fanelli had been deceased for over twenty years from cancer.  Once she was gone, the family no longer got together for the holidays and the secret of her raisin cookies was lost according to family lore.  Now by some miracle I could not fathom, my wife Barbara held the recipe in her hand.  Some of her daughters, my aunts, hinted that the secret recipe was somewhere in her secret hiding place.

“Where did you find it?” I asked, reading it over. 

“In the wall.” She answered with a shrug.

“In the wall?” I was astounded. 

“Yeah above cooler.” She pointed. 

I never would have guessed that would have been the hiding place she had chosen, but I went over to inspect the wall where there was a slight depression.  Running my finger along the crumbling tile, I found a crevasse where she had stashed it before she passed away.  I wound up inheriting the bakery in her last will and testament.  Grandpa and her had opened the bakery after Grandpa Vincent was discharged from the war.  He talked about some of his family he saw in the old country while marching up the boot of Italy.  When he got home, he found there were certain establishments that would not cater to olive skinned Italians.  

“I can’t believe this.” I held the slip as if it was a winning lottery ticket.

“So are you gonna make some?” Barbara asked, twirling her black hair with her finger. 

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” I answered.  

It surprised me how simple the recipe was and how quickly I had popped out a couple dozen.

“Are you going to try one?” I asked Barbara holding a warm one out for her.

“Sure.” She smiled as she took it from my hand and took a bite. “Mmm, tasty.” 

“They taste good when they are warm, don’t they?” I chuckled while taking a big bite of one. When I looked up, I was alarmed to see my wife sitting there with a blank expression on her face, her eyes staring straight ahead without any recognition of what she was seeing or if she was seeing anything whatsoever. Swallowing what I had in my mouth, I was instantaneously transported to an earlier time in my life.  My hands, my body felt like a foreign object to me. 

“Zippy!” I heard my voice call out. 

From the bushes near the river bank, a dog with its tail wagging furiously came running to me without hesitation. It was a warm summer day just like the afternoon when my big loveable Labrador Retriever was hit and killed by a speeding car as we walked home.  

My heart began to race as my arms were filled with my best friend.  The road where he would be struck just a few yards behind us.  I heard my mother call.

“Gordy, it’s dinnertime.” 

I put my hands on his collar as he licked my face.

“C’mon boy, time to go home.”  I continued to hold his collar as I came to my feet. With my hands still hooked into his collar, I began to walk home.  As we emerged from the underbrush, I saw a red car come racing down the road.  It was the same car that struck Zippy when I was just twelve years old, but I refused to let him go.  I watched the car disappear down a side road near our house. “Good boy.” 

The memory of running to him as he lay wounded in the road, was one of the few dark spots in my childhood memory.  But together we walked into the door to the delicious aroma of my mother’s cooking. 

“Hey there boys.” She smiled.

My dark memory of that afternoon had been removed as Zippy continued to wag his tail as he immediately went to dish for a drink of water and some of his dinner. 

“Gord.  Gord.” I heard my Barb’s voice as she shook my arm, “Are you alright?” 

“Are you?” I blinked and shook my head. 

“It was so strange…” Her voice grew shallow.

“What?  What did you see?” She asked. 

“I was with Zippy.” I swallowed hard.  I had told her the story of my dog many times and never completely dried eyed.   

She froze like a statue for a moment, her face drained of any color and if she was still breathing there was no way of telling. 

“I was with Toni.  She told me she was alright…not to worry.” She dropped her head.

Toni had drowned in a tragic accident at camp in a lake at a summer camp when Barbara was just eight years old.  She told me that her older sister appeared to her from time to time, but she was told that it was just a figment of her imagination.  While we were dating, Barbara confessed she always welcomed her sister’s visits even if they only took place in her imagination. 

“She was in her room.” Barbara continued.  In her rendition of the years following her sister’s death, Barb told me that her mother refused to move a single thing in Toni’s room.  Sometimes she would catch her mother sobbing on Tone’s bed.  She would ask her mother what was wrong.  Her mother would answer that someone had moved some of Toni’s things.  She would blame Barb for this, chiding her for committing such a sacrilege. “It wasn’t me.”

“What?” I gasped.

“It wasn’t me.  I did not go into her room. It wasn’t me.” Barb began to sob.

“Honey, it was just a dream.” I put my hands over hers on the table, but she jerked them quickly from under my hands.

“It was no dream.” She looked at me with her blue eyes filled with tears. “Why does everyone tell me it’s either my imagination or a dream?”

“Sorry.” I shook my head.

“I want to go see her again.” Barb whispered in a little girl’s voice.  I turned my head as I could no longer stand to look her in the eyes.  While we were dating, she was not allowed to talk about Toni when she was around her parents.  Whenever I picked her up at her house, I was overcome with the heavy wave of depressions that had completely covered the two story Victorian dwelling. 

“We’d better not sell these.” I held up one of the oatmeal raisin cookies. 

“Gordie.” My grandmother would call me to help her in the kitchen, “I thought we’d make some of my special raisin cookies. Would you help me?” 

“Can I have one when they’re done?” I asked hopefully. 

“Oh no, you’re much too young.” She would put her floury finger on my nose leaving a white spot.  

I could never understand why she would not let me have one of her tasty confections.  My mother told me that he had a lot to do with some of the ingredients she put in her mixture.  Now that I had followed her recipe, I could not think of one thing that would prevent a child from having one.  But now that I had eaten one, I was beginning to understand that there was something very special about these cookies.  Special in a very other-worldy way.

I hid the rest in a sack under the counter where a growing clutter had gathered.  I would take them to the dumpster, but during a customer rush, this completely slipped my mind.  The discarded sack remained under the counter. I had no idea what extraordinary events this oversight would bring.  

“How’s business?” My mother breezed in wearing her sunglasses which she removed once seated at the counter.

“Great.” I answered with pride. 

“Your grandmother would be happy for you.” She put her purse on the counter in front of her. “Do you need a hand?” 

“No, mom, I think we got it.” I shrugged.

“Good, I did not feel like it anyway.” She nodded. 

“Then why did you offer?” 

“It’s what mothers do.” She chuckled.

“Gord, I need you on station four.” Barbara pointed, “Oh hello Myra.” 

“Barbara.” My mother nodded. 

“Be right there.” I began to walk to the station at the other end of the customer section.  

“So how have you been?” My mother asked Barb.

“Fine…what have you heard?” She put her finger to her lip.

“Nothing.” She shook her head.

“I’m fine.” She did not sound so sure of her reply.

“Coffee and one of your scones.” Mom ordered.

“Coming right up.” Barb turned on her heel. 

When she brought the scone on a paper doley on a plate, she looked down and saw the bag.  Putting the plate in front of my mother, Barb squatted down and opened the bag.  When she saw the cookies, she removed one from the bag.  She took a bite.  She was immediately transported into the past.  Before she left, she put the uneaten raisin oatmeal on the counter in front of my mother.

“Hello, what is this?” She picked up the cookie. “It looks like one of my mother’s.” 

Without question, she took a bite.  She, like my wife, was immediately transported into the past.

“Myra, my chest hurts.” My father put his hand to his chest dropping the newspaper he had been reading in his easychair. 

“It’s probably just indigestion, Phil.” My mother assured him.

“Are you sure?” He groaned, “The pain is really excruciating.” 

“Oh you are such a baby sometimes.” She applied some scarlet red lipstick as she looked in the mirror on the wall.  He made a noise that made her turn around just in time to see him clutch his chest as he fell to the floor. 

“You idiot.” My mother chided herself as she stood there motionless, unable to help her husband as he gasped for his next breath that would never come.

“Who are you?” My mother from the past turned to see who was calling her an idiot.

“I am you.” Her answer unsettled her former self. 

“Impossible.” She sneered, “I would never let myself go like you have.” 

“He is dying.” 

“What am I supposed to do about it?” She sneered again.

“Call for help.” 

She just sat there unable to do anything.

“I let him die.” Myra commented as she watched, “It was all my fault.” 

“Phil, Phil, wake up.” My mother’s former self began to shake him, but he remained unresponsive.

“He’s gone.” 

When my mother came back, she sat there staring straight ahead.  I knew in an instant what had happened.  When I got to her, I saw the remaining crumbs near her plate. 

“Mother.” I waved my hand in front of her eyes. 

“He’s gone.” She whispered.

“Who?  Who’s gone?” 

“Your father.” She gasped.

“Mom, he’s been gone for over twelve years.” I shook my head.

“I sat there and watched him…die.” 

“Mom, it’s not your fault.”  I squatted to look her in the eye.  Her pupils were no more than pinpoints. 

“Sweet boy.” She said as she patted me on the cheek.

“Where’s Barb?” I felt the electric current of panic surge through me. 

“She was here a minute ago.” She shrugged. 

I looked at the door to the kitchen as Barbara and another person walked through the swinging doors.

“Who is that?” I wondered aloud.

“My guess, it’s her long deceased sister, Toni.” My mom answered.

“Look who followed me here.” Barbara seemed very pleased. 

“I was always warned that this might happen.” Myra shook her head.  “If you alter the past, you will change events that may follow.” 

My mind jumped to Zipper who came home with me home. 

“It has already occurred.” She sighed, “When Zippy came home, I knew someone had found the recipe.  It was you, wasn’t it?” 

I bowed my head, “Yeah.” 

“I knew when I tasted that cookie that the secret had been found.  Now you have something to worry about.” She nodded her head toward Toni who was seated at the counter next to Barbara.  With their heads nearly touching, I could not make out any of their conversation. “What are you going to do about this?” 

I had no idea.  Nothing had prepared me for this mad scenario.

“Perhaps you’d better have one of these.” My mom held out an oatmeal cookie. “And I’d be very careful about making more of these things, these raisin cookies of Christmases past.  My mother, your grandmother made these because they took us to memories and places that were good.  There was some sort of prayer she said to ensure that this would be so.  I have a feeling that you did not utter that prayer, did you.” 

I could not answer, I just shook my head.

“As I figured.” She sighed, “I just relived the saddest day of my life as you did the day your beloved dog died.  We all have our memories that cause us pain. I don’t blame you, Gord, I just wish you had conferred with me first.” 

“What do I do?” I asked, feeling helpless. 

“You know.” She handed me the cookie.  With some hesitation, I took a bite.  

“Toni, it’s time to return.” I spoke to her as if we were the only ones in the room.

“I don’t want to.” She refused.

“You have to come with me.” I held out my hand.

“I want to stay here.” She whines. 

“No, you can’t.” I took a hold of her hand.

“You are such a meany.” She sounded like a child as we walked through a portal filled with a bright light. The moment we entered the portal, Toni disappeared.  

I was standing on the street with Zippy.

“Zippy!” I yelled as a red car swerved trying to avoid hitting my dog, but the car hit my dog despite the driver’s  effort.  I ran into the road as the car pulled over. Zippy breathed his last breath and died in my arms just like he had on that fateful day.  

I blinked and found myself back at my bakery.  With her head on the counter sobbing, Barbara was sitting next to my mother. My mother looked up at me and winked. 

“You did the right thing.” She said as she kissed Barbara on the top of her head. 

I know I did, but as I was holding Zippy, I wondered what purpose this whole series of events had served.  It was bad enough going through it as a child, why did I have to go through it again?  What purpose did it serve to have Barbara reunited with her sister only to have to lose her all over again?  

Without any further conversation, I picked up the sack and walked it out to the dumpster.  Inside the bag, I had put the recipe.  It seemed like the right thing to do under the circumstances.