Raisin cookie recipe, Part 2

After an afternoon of card-playing, snacking, a great supper, and my favorite raisin-filled cookies with my grandmother, I felt like the day could not get any better. I pushed myself back from the table, too full to get up, too full to return to my own car, drive home and tackle my home work, too full to even help her clean up the table and sighed in contentment. She smiled at me. She was seated across the table and had basically watched me eat the cookies as if my life depended on it. I think she ate one small cookie herself.

“You better get yourself a piece of paper and pencil,” she said.

“Grandma,” I moaned, “I don’t think I can move.”

“Suit yourself, but I’m pretty sure you’ll want to write down the recipe.”

“What?” I said, perking up.

“I know you are a smart kid, but I don’t think you’ll be able to remember it all.”

“You’re going to give me the recipe?”

“You better get your paper and pencil.”

She kept these in a kitchen drawer with her playing cards, rubber bands, scissors and tape. I had just been in there to put away the implements we used in our afternoon card-playing.

So I sprang up, retrieved the necessary implements and returned to the table.

She was holding a dishcloth.

“Don’t get food on your paper,” she instructed, as she handed me the dishcloth. I quickly wiped up crumbs, a few drops of tea and a splotch of gravy that was hardening. I dried off the semi-wet table with my sleeve. She looked at me and shook her head, but she understood I was excited.

Then she recited from memory her recipe. I am glad I selected a pencil, because she had to adjust a few ingredients and measurements as she went along. At the conclusion, I read what I wrote and she made a couple of adjustments. Like all good recipes a couple of the ingredients depended on whether she had any on hand, and others she varied depending on what she felt might taste better this time.

“You’re not leaving anything out, are you?” I asked, “just so that no one could ever make the cookies you made?” I was a little suspicious, because when we got to the mixing part, she said she put all the ingredients into the bowl at the same time and simply mixed them up with her hands. (“I just roll up my sleeves and stick my hands right in there,” she said.)

“There’s only one way to find out,” she answered.

“Thanks, Grandma,” I said. “This is great!”

“You’re welcome,” she answered. Now, don’t you think you better get yourself home to finish your homework. It’s getting late, and you have school tomorrow.

“May I—?” I began before she interrupted.

“Here,” she said. “You can take these home with you. Make sure you give one to your mother.”

While I had been distracted or concentrating on the recipe, she had retrieved a Tupperware container from the cupboard and handed it to me.

“I will.”