I was born the oldest female child in my family.  This makes me the first granddaughter on both the maternal and paternal sides of the family.  Of course, as the newest granddaughter and niece to many aunts, I was spoiled with attention, gifts, and adventures for the first few years of my life.  Once the other fifteen combined siblings and cousins entered the family, all of the attention, gifts, and adventures became disbursed among us all.  

Receiving exclusive attention in this big huge extended family during those formative years was great fun.  As a child around the age of eight or nine, my grandmothers independently decided to teach me how to bake.  At my maternal grandmother’s house I learned how to mix ingredients by taste, feel, and sight to produce the best tasting confectionaries that I have yet to ever taste again.  Her kitchen was a perfect white square that reminded me of an aged old farm house kitchen even though her house resided in the city. I remember her lessons being messy. White flour sprinkled everywhere.  Silver metal utensils and various food supplies scattered on top of the white metal table that was trimmed with two thin bright red lines on the edges of all four sides and spread out all over the black speckled white Formica counter tops that lined three walls of the kitchen.  We were always making several recipes at the same time.  Scurrying from the open cupboards to pull down mixing bowls and baking pans, to the counter tops to roll out various combinations of dough, to the kitchen drawers to pick out additional mixing utensils, to the refrigerator to retrieve baking ingredients, to the oven and stove to cook and bake our concoctions.  Pure and simple fun taking place the entire time we were creating.  From her I learned not to be afraid to experiment – to try different ways of doing things.    

My first structured baking lesson where recipes were actually followed and ingredients were actually measured was given to me on a Saturday afternoon by my paternal grandmother, great aunt Loretta, along with my favorite aunt Pat, who was also my God Mother and father’s younger sister.  At that first lesson, it was agreed that all future lessons would be conducted on Saturday afternoons in my Aunt Loretta’s kitchen. I remember her kitchen being bright yellow in color with the most modern appliances of the mid 1960s, all a goldenrod color.  Her kitchen was large - longer than wide, making it a perfect place for all four of us to easily move around each other.  

Before the first lesson in that kitchen began, I received a gift wrapped box filled with a beginner’s set of baking utensils and supplies.  Clear glass and plastic measuring cups of various sizes, silver metal measuring spoons, two baking sheets, three white cream glass mixing bowls that nested inside of each other, a red handled silver whisk, a wood handle, white rubber spatula along with several wooden spoons were all inside the box.  Also in the box were silver metal, six inch, cookie cutters in the shape of a star, gingerbread man, Santa’s face, a bell, and a Christmas tree.  A flour shifter made of the same silver metal as the cookie cutters was also included.  My most favorite item in the box was the colorful apron that was made to my small size.  It was the kind that hung around my neck and tied in the back around my waist and covered me from the neckline to the top of my knees.  On that day and several Saturdays to follow I learned how to properly measure liquids, shift flour and how to use all of the items in the gift box.  We would bake cookies and brownies and cakes.  I learned how to make the best pie crusts - thick and flakey made with pure lard and flour. Many years later I don’t remember how most of those baked goods tasted (with the exception of those perfect pie crusts) but I do remember how much fun three generations of women could have laughing, talking, sharing stories, teaching and learning every Saturday afternoon.

By the time I moved out of my parent’s home and started to make my own way in the world, both of my grandmothers had passed away.  Now having my own kitchen in which to create and experiment with the baking skills I was given by these loving women, I have made it my own tradition to bake a variety of cookies to give away as Christmas gifts.  As the years have gone by, I have accumulated many friends living throughout the United States who now have families of their own.  They look forward to the Christmas package they receive every year full of home baked cookies made from scratch, not with store bought dough but honest to goodness original basic ingredients.  Baking the many dozens of cookies each year gives me the opportunity to relive those days with my grandmothers and aunts.  I can still smell the smells of my grandmothers and the unique smells of the kitchens.  As I am mixing the batters by hand and dropping the cookie dough onto the baking sheets and rolling out dough onto which those same cookie cutters from the gift box from so many years ago are being used, I find myself smiling and remembering those Saturday afternoons where I was made to feel like a grown up listening to the many family stories from the women I loved most, second to my mom, who taught me a lesson I still carry with me today:

When I had turned out a really bad batch of cookies one year in my teens she stated, “If you have learned from this experience, then your efforts were not wasted.”  This was her response after coming home to a kitchen that was cluttered with the ingredients from a baking project that had gone bad and me in tears for having wasted precious food staples.  Instead of being angry and upset with me she calmly helped me clean up the mess and helped me figure out what I did wrong.  To this day, no matter what mistakes I make or mess I get my-self into, I always look for the lesson that is meant to be learned.

Putting this tradition into my life has allowed me to stay close to these women.  Every year when I am baking these Christmas gifts it keeps their wonderful happy memories alive in my mind and in my heart.  It also brings me joy to have my friends and their children request my cookies every year.  The kids will ask every year if I am going to make their favorite cookies for the holidays.  When I go to visit, I am introduced to their friends as the person who makes the best cookies.   It is an endearing connection we carry on from year to year.  

Forty plus years later from those Saturday afternoons, having just relocated to south Florida, I found myself doing fund raisers for a charity organization called Turtle Nest Village, an organization that worked with the local youth who age out of foster care.  The youth that this organization helped were eliminated from their foster homes once they reach the age of eighteen.  Most have experienced an array of abuse and have rarely, if ever celebrated the rituals of the holiday season.  At the end of my first year’s involvement with the organization I was invited to attend their annual holiday party.  I did not have the personal financial means to buy each young adult in the organization a Christmas gift.  So I decided that while I was baking my annual Christmas cookie gifts, I would also bake an additional dozen cookies for each of the young adults that Turtle Nest Village was helping.  I wrapped each individual cookie in plastic wrap and placed them into decorative Christmas gift bags from the dollar store.  I was feeling sad that I could not do more for these young people and made a vow to put money aside throughout the up coming year so I would be able to do better for each of them personally the following holiday season.

The day of the party I placed twenty-five bags of cookies under the Christmas tree next to the other gifts from various donors each youth was to receive later that evening.  When the gifts were passed out there was a whirl of activity going on around the tree by these young adults.  Each of them was making sure they were getting their bag of cookies.  There was much discussion and surprise among the group about the cookies being homemade.  I had a young woman come up me to with the biggest grin on her face thanking me for the wonderful gift of the cookies.  She had never had a homemade cookie before and the one she was in the process of eating “was the best cookie she had ever tasted!” she exclaimed as she hugged me tight.  I also had a very tall, skinny young man come up to me and very softly and shyly, his big brown eyes looking down to the floor, thank me for the cookies.  It was apparent that it was a big effort for him to break away from his shyness to approach me, thus making his thank you and his comment of telling me the cookies were a great gift, all that more special.  He also wanted to know if he could have the extra bags that were left over as a result from some of the kids not being able to attend the party.  As the evening went on, I had a very large, round young man with two bags in each of his hands approach me and give me a very firm bear hug as his thank you.  He promised me that the additional bags he was holding were going to his room mates who couldn’t make the party.  He let me know they had never had home made cookies either and he couldn’t wait to see their reactions as they made a feast of the cookies.  Many of the young adults, whom I had never met before, made a point to approach me that night and thank me with words and/or hugs.  They were truly touched and thankful that they received such a precious gift.  Later that week I received word from the organization that the cookies were the talk of these young adults several days after the party was over.  I was made to promise that I would bring the cookies again next year.

After I had mailed out the Christmas cookie gifts to my friends the following week of the Turtle Nest Village Christmas party,  I found that I had several cookies left over, all wrapped up with no where to go.  I was going home to Michigan for Christmas and did not have any room in my luggage to take the cookies with me.  And I was all cookied out, therefore I did not want to keep them for myself.  The morning I was to leave for the airport, I remembered Michael.  

Michael was a wonderful, friendly, look you in the eyes when he spoke to you, kind of person. His sandy, shaggy hair was always blowing in the breeze along with his baggy clothes that were way too big on his skinny tall frame. Michael use to stand on the corner of a busy eight lane main road intersection every morning as the sun was rising, handing out local newspapers to the vehicles that were waiting for the red traffic lights to turn green.  He wove his way in between the stopped cars and darted in front of and behind the cars that never really came to a complete stop in a hurry to get on with their day.  Michael was always happy.  He always had a smile on his face and kind words to share.  He “God Blessed” me every time I got the opportunity to be stopped by the red light and waved at me frantically as I passed by him when the light was green and I was not allowed to stop to receive his kindness and unconditional love.  Michael was the type of person who after receiving several abrasions and bruises to his face and arms as a result from being beaten by a homeless thug the night before, was on his corner the next day at sunup handing out personally signed Christmas cards to all who allowed  him to approach their cars for his cheerful morning greetings.  He didn’t remember names but he treated everyone the same.  Even the rude people who said nasty things to him always received his happy words.  He once told me they deserved his blessings even more because they are so unhappy.  This was Michael.

It was exactly 5:30 a.m. when I loaded the last piece of luggage into my car for the drive to the airport for the trip back to Michigan for the holidays.  Even though Michael’s corner was in the opposite direction of the airport, I decided I had a few extra minutes to drive by Michael’s corner hoping he would be out this early so I could give him the remaining cookies.  As I approached the intersection there was no one there.  No stacked newspapers on the curb, no Michael or any of his friends that work the opposite corners of his intersection.  I was truly disappointed not to be able to give the cookies and a Merry Christmas to Michael and his friends.

On that same corner there is a fast food restaurant with a drive thru that was opened for breakfast. I decided to pull through for my morning caffeine to drink on the way to the airport.  As I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant I saw Michael and a short stout woman with dark black hair, also dressed in baggy clothes blowing in the breeze, sorting stacks of newspapers.  I slowly approached them in my car as not to startle them.  I pressed the button to roll down the car window and called out Michael’s name.  At first he looked a little confused and he hesitated to respond.  As recognition slowly spread across his face, so did his famous smile.  “MERRY CHRISTMAS”, I called out as I handed him the two Christmas bags full of cookies through the car window.  Michael looked confused once again.  “Merry Christmas” I repeated.  I explained to him that because he was such a bright spot to the start of my days, I wanted to share a little Christmas cheer with him and his friends.  I explained I had a plane to catch and did not have time to chat but I wanted to be sure to wish him a great holiday.  I then proceeded through the drive thru window for my caffeine fix.  As I pulled away from the restaurant, Michael and his middle aged, female friend came running up to my car.  Arms frantically waving and yelling at me to stop the car!  Tears were literally rolling down both of their dark sun baked cheeks.  Michael grabbed my hand and pulled it through the window and kept on kissing it thanking me over and over for the cookies.  His woman friend couldn’t believe the cookies were home made. She stated she hadn’t had a homemade cookie since she was a little girl.  Michael was so grateful he was beyond words.  He too couldn’t remember the last time he had a home made cookie.  He kept repeating the words “God Bless You, thank you.  God Bless You, thank you.”  They were both so grateful and excited over something that was to me, at the time, so small.  I had only started baking the cookies to keep the memories of my childhood alive.  I never imagined that something so simple could be so powerful.  My eyes welded up as I responded that God had already blessed me by putting him into my life.

What I now know for sure is something as simple as the cookie can bring such great joy to all who share in the entire process: making it, giving it, receiving it, and eating it gives the cookie great power.  

Written by Kathy Diebold and published in Lighthouse Point Magazine’s November 2015 issue.

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