Cookies and Memories

My earliest memories of the holiday season regard going to my great-grandmother's house. It was usually a 2 or 3 car processional, since my mom was the oldest of 7. I remember being on a lot of laps. Yes, this was way before laws regarding child retention in cars, Britney notwithstanding.

The drive up was not long, approximately 90 minutes or so. But we were always squirming in our seat (and laps), awaiting the festivities to come. Grandma's house had much to recommend.

First, was pulling into the quaint old town my great-grandma lived in, Camden, Michigan. Clean, well-manicured, turn-of-the-century houses line the streets. No 'bad side of town' to be had. There was a nifty soda shop/5 and dime, a small department store, a furniture store, and other small businesses at the main cross-street. Nobody does the holidays like small towns in the Midwest, and we always oohed and ahhed at the decorations in the windows.

Next was pulling up in front of my great-grandma's house, just off the downtown area. A quaint (there's that word again) stick house with a large porch and lots of gingerbread detailing, always painted a pristine white. We'd stand in line, usually tallest to shortest, and give Grandma Hazel a tight hug, usually commenting how we were catching up to her petite stature.

After the greet was what we were all waiting for. Who cares about the presents? The tree had no relevance to us yet. Our main object of affection was the back pantry and the Hoosier cabinet stationed there. For inside were the cookie jars of the Gods. No one, and I repeat no one, could make cookies like my Grandma Hazel. There were usually at least 3 large glass jars with tin lids. Each held a different variety, all delicious, my favorite being the Brown Sugar - Pecan delicacies referred to as Grandma Hazel's Cookie/Candy. It was like Amazing Race getting to the cookie jars, pushing, elbowing, even though there were enough for everyone, and then some.

After the great sugar massacre, all us kids were shussed outside to play, while the grown-ups got dinner together and chit-chatted. We had plenty to keep us busy. There was the old-fashioned water pump in the backyard that endlessly fascinated us. Unless it was frozen solid. From there, we'd hit up the veterinarian across the street to say 'hi' and see if he had any cute dogs in. If he was not there, we'd go for the main object of our adventures, the abandoned school down the street.

It was a neat old school, abandoned when small-town schools fell prey to larger, incorporated school districts. We usually found a way inside (breaking and entering was a foreign concept to us back then), and would explore the dusty rooms, keeping us occupied until an older relative was sent to fetch us.

All in all, good times. All good memories, as if nothing bad ever happened. The only bad thing I can remember is how long my grandma would take to unwrap her presents. Methodically and pain-stakingly unsticking each piece of tape, so as not to tear any of the beautiful wrapping paper. Then folding each piece as if it were the finest silk. It must have come from depression days, but we did not have the patience she had. And we had to wait for her to open each present before we could open another one. Faster, Grandma, faster!

All of this comes flooding back because I made a practice batch of my Grandma Hazel's famous cookie/candy. I'm the only one left who still makes them because they are such a pain in the ass. But, oh, so worth it. This week, I'll post this super secret recipe. Tune in, you won't be disappointed.

By the way, the cookies only turned out so-so. It was way too humid today. And 75 degrees. Eat your heart out, Northerners!