My son made cookies. Which is nice. He made them with the recipe that my mother gave me. It is the same recipe, she insists, that is on the back of a package of Nestle's Toll House Chocolate Chips. It is the recipe that came with this suggestion: "If you like them so much, you should learn how to make them."
I understand that this may sound a little harsh, considering baking cookies for her boys was such a wonderful treat. Back in the days when we spent summers in our mountain cabin, she made those cookies for us as a way to take the edge off the tension brought on by Colorado's afternoon thunder showers. The boys were pretty much okay with the electricity and noise booming up in the heavens, but it helped calm the nerves of the lady who was in charge of the cookies. Which was important.
It was also a very important life lesson for those boys who were often amused by how nervous their mother got during thunder storms. Being able to make the things that you love for yourself meant that the baton, or in this case the wooden spoon, could be passed on. To this day, when I make a trip back to visit family in Colorado, there is always a cookie jar chock full of home made cookies. Just like mom made. Since she did. Sometimes, she gets a little help from my niece. She got the same mild lecture about making cookies for herself way back when she need a stool to stand at the kitchen counter to help out Now she's the one stirring the batter.
And so is my son. I offered up the recipe and the suggestion that he take a batch of his own cookies for his trip with the guys up to the lake. Secure enough in his manliness, he took the challenge. Along with the ingredients and equipment I set out on the counter for him. Then I went and sat in the living room, watching TV and listening for trouble in the kitchen.
The call never came. He brought my wife and I beaters to lick, even though this was clearly messing with the traditional mixing with wooden spoon. That was my fault, since even though my mother taught me that electric mixers are the Devil's work, I added this to the process. My mother has yet to forgive me for this indiscretion, but that is what happens when you let a kid take over.
Cleaning up the kitchen in the aftermath of my son's first batch of chocolate chip cookies, I came across an untouched bottle of vanilla extract. The vanilla extract that did not make it into this batch of chocolate chip cookies. Oops. That's what happens when you let a kid take over.