We sat and lamestormed the subjects of our upcoming blogs. Pedicures lamenting… lame. Opinions on ink cartridges… lame. Could cracking one’s knuckles be flirting… lame. Finally we decided that we’d write something about ourselves that no one knows.
My mother shared with me her great gift of baking. I adored baking. Hung around the kitchen and underfoot, constantly wanting to learn to bake various types of cookies, new types of cakes and pies. Nothing was from a cook book, everything was from her head with a lot of improvisation.
At the same time my dad share with me the gift of loving animals. We had a cat at one time, a dog, a hamster, a guinea pig and, of course an assortment of goldfish. Life gave me the gift of imagination. Creativity was my muse and took me through many an adventure, albeit often only part reality.
One day, while still at a young age, I begged my mom to allow me to make all by myself my dad his favorite cookie, oatmeal raisin. She was hesitant at first, but I was also relentless. She went over and over the ingredients, stipulating how important it was to not leave anything out. She talked about taking care with oven mittens and hot cookie pans. I listened attentively and the moment arrived, I got to bake the cookies all by myself. I was tickled, and dad often came into the kitchen to ask if they were done yet, for the sweet aroma had filled the house.
I carefully placed each cookie on a plate in a perfect pyramid and carried them into my dad. They were still a little warm. He sat there eagerly anticipating the treat with a glass of skin milk, though he not a dunker, just a washer-down sort. He took his first bite, blinking in amazement, swallowing and then regaling me with praise. I watched happily as he ate every last cookie, pouring glass after glass of milk, and then shoving the cookies into his mouth one after the other as I continued to watch, refusing to miss a moment of his delight. Afterward, he gave be a big hug and thank you. Only, as he walked away he had a strange look.
At the time, I couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to do with my one improvisations. And until now, this very moment, I never told a soul what that improv had been, nor would I have ever but Zi charged me with sharing something that no one knows about me. I have. We had been out of raisins, so I used my guinea pig ’s poop. After all, they looked just like raisins to a girl my age. I always wondered, did my dad know, and if he did, what a wonderful man he must have been.
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