Page 36 of Untangled
Making chocolate chip cookies for Violet to “leave out for Santa” is one of the sweetest ideas Daniel’s had—literally and figuratively. Of course, she’s too young to understand any of it, and we probably won’t let her eat one, but I’m swooning at the birth of a new family tradition. I can see years-worth of family photos, Violet growing from a round baby to a bow-legged toddler to a gap-toothed girl, sitting next to a plate of half-eaten cookieson Christmas morning. I can see years-worth of Daniel and me, progressively grayer and more wrinkled, laughing and playfully arguing about forgetting to soften the butter.
“Do you think this baking powder is still good?” he asks, bringing the box to his nose for a sniff.
“It doesn’t really spoil,” I say as I grab the box from his hand, chuckling. “If it’s bad, the cookies will turn out flat.”
“So is that a yes or a no on whether it’s good?”
“I’ve got another box—it’s on the top shelf behind the flour. Grab both, the chocolate chips, and the vanilla.”
He ambles to the pantry and I give myself a second to watch his rear as he does. It’s cliche, but the gray sweatpants effect is real. He looks good.
Tearing myself from his ass, I collect the butter and eggs, and grab the sugar, brown sugar, and salt. We both approach the counter with an armful of baking supplies.
“Wet or dry?” I ask, while wondering if he knows what I’m asking.
“Dry for me. I always want you wet,” he answers with a wink, and desire drips like molasses, sticky down my spine.
Cookies, Molly,I remind myself.Don’t get distracted.
With a cleared throat, I shove the brown sugar and salt his way.
“For you to mix,” I reply, and it’s a miracle I don’t smack his ass with a spatula while I’m at it.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a smirk.
We peer at the small index card with my mother’s handwriting, our foreheads almost touching from opposite sides of the island. We scour the list for our ingredients and their volumes, even while a brown, ragged splash—a drop of a vanilla from years ago—obscures part of it. The card is smudged, worn around the edges. There’s a metaphor there, I’m sure, about love and worth and effort.
“How many cookies are you eating tonight?” Daniel asks as I roll an egg, smooth and cold, between my palms.
“At least two. Maybe three. You?”
He tilts his head and squints one eye, in an expression so familiar I could draw it by memory.Thinking Face, I’d title it. “Probably five. I was going to say three, but then I thought—we’re being vulnerable these days. Why lie?”
“A cookie confession. I love it,” I reply, before leaning forward and kissing his lips. Just a peck to tide me over.
With the butter appropriately soft, it’s time to cream the sugar. I turn on the hand mixer while Daniel portions out half and quarter teaspoons of fresh baking powder and salt. “Pass me the vanilla?” I ask when the butter is whippy and more white than yellow. He palms it, walks to my side of the island, and positions himself behind me.
“How much?” he asks, with his hands on the edge of the counter, bracketing me in. I lean my head against the solid weight of his arm and the kiss he presses to my neck, breathy and warm, skips straight to my heart.
“Two teaspoons.” I lift the small silver spoon, but rather than take it from me, he turns my hand level, opens the vanilla and pours it into the hollow.
“There’s one,” he says, twisting my wrist to let the liquid spill into my bowl. Repeating the process again, he says, “There’s two.”
It hits like a gasp, the nostalgia already seeping around the corners of the memory we’re making. Being wrapped in his arms with sugar under my fingernails and the scent of vanilla blooming in my nose, this is a moment I’ll look back on with fondness. When I’m eighty-five and thinking back on my life,thisis what I’ll come back to.
A contented hum leaves my throat as I soak it in, to catalog it.
The oven dings to announce it’s done preheating. Daniel takes one more second to nuzzle into my neck, and I relish the scratch of his stubble against my skin, the contrast to the softness of his cheek. “Back to work,” he says as he moves toward his side of the counter, though he lets his hand linger on my lower back until he can no longer reach.
I crack the eggs and mix, then grab his bowl. I add the dry ingredients a little at a time, folding them in until they join the mass of dough. Every time I add more, what’s in the bowl evolves—a little drier, lighter in color, a firmer texture. There’s a metaphor here too, about trusting the process and allowing yourself to be changed.
“Got the chips?” I ask when I have a ball of dough that smells divine and is moldable under my fingers.
“The recipe says one cup of chips for every cup of flour, but I’m doing a cup and a half and I won’t be dissuaded.”
“Agreed—an excellent use of free will,” I reply with a soft smile, and watch as the morsels cascade into the bowl, slowly at first and then en masse. I mix them in by hand, having learned from my mom not tooverwork the dough.
Then we spoon them and roll balls before flattening them with our fingertips on the greased tray. When all is said and done, we have twenty four cookies. Five for Daniel, three for me, two for Santa and fourteen to eat on Christmas Day when we’re hungry at 8 p.m. on account of 3 p.m. dinner at my parents’ house.
