Grandma’s Cookies

“Excuse me, where can I find the maple syrup?” if you’d told me when I asked that simple question that it would change the course of my entire life, I’d have laughed in your face. But now I can admit you’d have been right.

“The maple syrup is on Aisle Five,” the stock boy absently swept back a shock of brown bangs that kept sliding into his eyes. Two seconds later, they were flirting with his line of vision again. “Are you looking for pure from Vermont maple, a flat-out imitation syrup, or a blend of both? We have them all…”

“Oh! I absolutely want pure Vermont maple syrup!” No hesitation there; I don’t often splurge on such things, but this ingredient was going into a very special project. I was attempting to recreate my grandmother’s cinnamon cookies and her secret ingredient was homemade maple syrup that she and Grandpa worked together to create from the maple trees in their vast backyard. When they sold their mini farm to retire in Florida, I guess they went to local farmers markets and such because Grandma still made those glorious cookies.

Every Christmas they’d arrive in a brilliantly wrapped parcel covered in bright green, red and gold ribbons. The wrapping paper was Grandma’s special hallmark, something she’d used for all my siblings and cousins since we were babies. How she kept it all those years was a mystery to me, but I knew every Christmas that I’d see the special gift wrapped in Grandma’s trademark paper. Until the year the gifts stopped coming…

Upon approaching a lower left hand shelf at the beginning of Aisle Five, I found an array of jellies, jams, honey, molasses and syrups. It was important to find the most authentic Vermont maple there; I had already been to five previous stores and hadn’t found the right one. Which sounds strange considering I didn’t even know what exactly I was looking for. Just knew it would somehow be obvious when the right one came up. And I’d been told by several people that this store had the widest selection, so I was determined to find what I needed this time around.

“Hi!” the voice behind me startled me so much that I jumped. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I was practically in a trance. On the other side of the “hi” was the stock boy who’d told me where to find my treasured ingredient. He brushed his hair back from his eyes again and this time I could see their unique caramel color before they were once again covered by the glossy fringe.

“Uh, hi,” unsure of what he wanted, I was feeling antsy to get home and work on my project. I’d already spent an entire two weeks chasing down Grandma’s cookie ingredients and Christmas was fast approaching.

The young man turned a dark shade of red, the type that I’d only read about in books. Seeing such a deep blush in real life was surprising to my untrained eyes. He continued, “No one really appreciates pure syrup anymore, at least not that I’ve met and, well, I was interested because my family makes it.”

That got my attention.

“I’m actually learning how to do it myself. My name’s Ted, by the way. My father never cared to participate, but my uncle comes to our house during the late winter and taps the trees; boils; preserves…the whole process. We freeze it to extend its use all year round. Are you - and pardon me if this is bold - but are you interested in learning how?”

Actually, I did find this to be a little forward and yet…I felt intrigued. I looked more closely at this kid and realized he was older than I’d first perceived. Probably late twenties. At twenty-seven, I was pretty good at figuring ages when paying attention to detail. I supposed his query could be worth investigating.

“I’m Francesca and go by Frankie. I’m in a rush right now, but that does sound interesting. Would your uncle be willing to teach a total stranger, though?”

Ted assured me that his uncle had taught him efficiently enough that he could coach me himself. We quickly exchanged telephone numbers and he told me not to buy anything on the shelf. Just meet him by his car in five. No way. I don’t go over to strangers’ cars no matter how nice they seem. I told him I’d wait at the door and wondered if he was going to give me a sample of his family’s product.

Ten minutes later, I finished my shopping and met Ted at the door. Sure enough, he did have a bottle he wanted to gift me and I accepted it. I felt badly for not having trusted him because he really did seem like a very nice guy. “No, this is a gift from me,” Ted said now as I politely offered to reimburse him.

I thanked my intriguing new acquaintance and made myself a silent promise to take him up on his previous offer.

* * * * * * * * *

Unpacking and putting away groceries is usually a chore, but I was thinking about my grandmother. Her lovely reddish brown curls. The sweet scent of her oatmeal soap. And most of all, Grandma’s loving smile. I missed her so. It had been five years since her passing and I needed to find a way to keep her memory alive. The cookie recipe seemed to me the perfect way to do it.

Best of all, no one else in my family had the recipe…but I did. Grandma gave it to me when I was only eleven years old.

“Frankie,” she’d said, “You’re a responsible girl and I feel that you’re old enough and adequately mature to receive something special from me.” Reaching up to the shelf where she kept her recipe box, my grandmother brought down the olive toned tin and gently lifted the cover. Leafing through a few delicate sheets, she pulled out a piece of paper upon which her own, beautiful penmanship was neatly inscribed: the cinnamon cookie recipe. Handing it to me, she added, “No one else is to have this until one day your granddaughter is old enough to receive it.”

Immediately concerned, I asked my grandma if she was ill. She laughed in that warm, gentle way of hers and said not to worry about that. She was strong as an ox, she told me. But someday, way in the future, I’d be continuing her tradition. “But don’t you need your recipe so you can bake these now?”

Grandma chuckled again. “Oh, Frankie, it’s all in here,” and she touched her heart as she said it. “And,” she added with a smile, “I have another copy, just in case. So don’t you worry!” Then Grandma winked and we never mentioned it again because we had an unspoken understanding.

Standing in my kitchen now, I was determined not to let my grandmother down. I studied the recipe as I’d done so many times before. These needed to be made just right. I aspired to do her special cookies justice and was so nervous about actually making them that my tentative hand dropped the flour as I watched half of it spread across the kitchen linoleum like freshly fallen snow. After salvaging the rest, I got to work. The homemade maple syrup came last and upon opening the jar, a flood of memories overtook me.

Thanksgiving Day, eight years old. Grandpa was handing out cookies to everyone after our annual, delicious feast. Like Grandma, he too, had a scent. A piney aftershave that smelled like home. “Frank-Frank, you don’t want a cookie do you?” Grandpa teased. We always played that game and I told him that I did. When he finally gave me my anticipated dessert, it was worth the wait. Warm, sweet goodness melted in my mouth as the soft cookie fed both my stomach and soul.

No, I couldn't let my grandparents down.

* * * * * * * * *

Fast forward forty-three years and here I am with my own eleven-year-old granddaughter.

“Brittany, dear. I have something special for you today.”

She looks at me questioningly with her caramel eyes just as I had with my blue ones when my grandmother did this with me. I reach for my wooden recipe box and take out Grandma’s handwritten cinnamon cookie recipe. “This is very special and I think you’re old enough to handle it now.”

Brittany curiously unfolded the same exact paper my grandmother had given me almost fifty years before and her face scrunched up. “Grandma Frankie…you’re okay aren’t you?” My granddaughter’s look of concern touched me and I assured her that I was going to be there for her graduation, her wedding and more.

“But Grandpa Ted and I won’t be around forever, you know.” I said that last part with a teasing smile so the child wouldn’t worry. Then turning serious, I told Brittany that someday she was to carry on the family recipe that started with Great-Great Grandmother Elizabeth so many years ago. “It’s a tradition and this is very special because it’s in her very own writing.” She traced the swirling cursive letters tenderly. I looked poignantly at her and added, “This is only between us. And Grandpa Ted, of course. As you know, the secret ingredient is the homemade maple syrup that we’ve made together all these years.”

Brittany looked worried at that. “But what if I can’t find someone to make the syrup with, Grandma?”

I laughed and explained that she didn’t have to. Then reflected a little and added, “But you never know, Brittany. Life has a funny way of working out.”

And with that, I handed her a small gift wrapped in very special paper. The same gift wrapping that she, her siblings and cousins had received from me since they were babies. I knew that my granddaughter wondered how I could still have that wrapping paper, but there are some things that only grandmothers know. And those are the very things that bond families together and create lifelong memories.