I could feel a blister forming on the side of my middle finger as I turned the attention of my spoon to a different part of the dough in the bowl. It revealed more dry flour under the mixed dough on top. A mental sigh inevitably escaped in my brain. I wasn't annoyed, or exasperated, but I recognized that I had more to do before I could come close to immersing all of myself and my senses into the sensational taste that only comes around for a brief season of the year: it was that of a peanut- butter kiss cookie.
The recipe is simple enough. In total, the dough is made up three ingredients, add another two after the dough is finished, and voilaa- you've made yourself your own little heaven. Amazing. A few basic ingredients just seemed to make everything better. But it was also easier said than done, as the blister made clear to me. It also likely did not help that this was my third batch of cookies today, but traditions are necessities come Christmas time, and I didn't mind this activity. All it required was literally following step by step instructions on a small recipe card, steps simple enough that six year old me could follow; which was fine by me, I had experienced enough excitement for the last three months that this time seemed like an easy escape from all of that.
My tranquil state was soon interrupted. "So, have you ever read that book, that book, Wild, by what's, what's her name? Cheryl Stray?" My mother's brain was too smart and over-calculating sometimes. She knew I had read the book, a likely result of peeking around in my room while I was away. I pushed the thought of what else she may have found out of my mind, as I simultaneously bit my tongue to not correct her on the author's name. It's Strayed, by the way, Cheryl Strayed.
"Yeah, why?" I answered, trying to seem patient, trying not to seem tense. I knew there were parts in that book my mother wouldn't like, but I just couldn't remember for the life of me which parts were specific to this book were. It can be hard to keep track, after reading so many books, so many books that carry such varied points of view between the two of us. She just didn't know that.
"Oh, I just was wondering. I'm listening to it on tape now, and I- I, well I really don't care for a lot of what is going on in the book." She looks at the dough she is stirring with a dismissive book on her face. The expression makes me grateful I didn't express how it was one of favorite books that I had read in years. I made a mental note to remember not to be too enthusiastic about my new role model.
"What do you mean?" I said carefully, voices alone can now walk on eggshells, didn't you know?
"Well all of her sleeping around. And she goes on the Pacific, Pacific Trail? Without ever having done a hike before! Like who would do that!" Her voice has changed into that of an outraged girl gossiping over who likes who. "And the heroine! OH, and the fact that she brought condoms on the trail. Like why would she do that, she thought she was going to have sex on the trail! Ugh."
I keep my eyes on my cookie dough, as I begin to roll it into balls the size of my thumb, "mom have you finished the book?"
"Well, no. I just think her habits are absolutely disgusting and I can't believe she would go on the trail with the gear she did. Why would she bring a chair?"
"Mom, finish the book. If you judge her whole story you aren't going to take anything away from it. The story is supposed to be about how she doesn't bring anything on trail," my voice was gaining strength. I feel like I should be more concerned with my very true opinion coming out about the book, but at this point I had refined the odd skill of containing my feelings to that of her approval. Still, I was tempted to rant about how Cheryl Strayed's sex life didn't matter because the point of the story was the trail changing her life, and changing her. Sleeping around could represent any of our bad habits, and we have to find our trail to overcome them. But somehow, I couldn't see my mother following this simple logic of the book's symbolism.
As I started to place the first cookie tray in the oven when my mother then decided to argue against Cheryl Strayed's swearing in the book. I began to zone her out as I put the sheets both in and closed the door to the oven. I threw a quick comment about the swearing was a part of her personality, and glanced down at my fresh blister, touching it lightly with my thumb- fuck that hurt. The sensitive spot on my finger sent a shot of pain down through my hand. I shook my hand out to get rid of the feeling, thinking to myself how completely unaware she is of her own daughter's habit of using "such unladylike words."
J
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