The Great Cookie Dough Heist

LeeAnnRubsam.com

It was a kinder, gentler world back then – a time when salmonella did not rule the bird population, and children could still eat raw cookie dough even if it did have eggs in it. My mother used an old family recipe to make the most wonderful cutout sugar cookies, and Christmas would not have been complete without them. Their one drawback was the two-step process involved – make the dough one day and roll them out and bake them on another.

Mom worked long hours as a bookkeeper at a local gas station, yet she always managed to find time to play board games with us kids, take us wherever we needed to go, and bake goodies for the family. But it didn’t usually happen just when we were panting and breathing for it. It was that way with the Christmas cookies, one year. We made the dough one Saturday, and waited on the baking until the following Saturday. It was more than a little girl could bear.

“Mom can we make the cookies tonight?” Dead-tired Mom didn’t want to think about it, so night after night the answer was the same. The project must wait until Saturday, which seemed at least a decade away.

Sinister crimes are usually perpetrated in dark places, and this one was no different. The cookie dough, stored deep in the farthest corner of the basement refrigerator, pleaded loudly in my ears, “Eat me! Please, come eat me!”

I answered the call. It was just a tiny sampling at first. No one would have even noticed, especially after I pinched the dough together so the finger marks wouldn’t show. I swore that first dough-snitching episode would be my last, but day after day, evening after evening, the dough continued calling. I could hear it while watching TV, while reading a book, while trying to sleep: “Eat me. Please, come eat me!” And I succumbed, again and again.

A little taste here and a little taste there, and by Thursday night, a horrible truth had dawned: when Mom went to bake those cookies on Saturday, the whole family would know that someone had been stealing the goods. There was only enough left for about three cookies. I had vaguely observed a gradual dwindling of the mound, but kept telling myself it was not very noticeable, until it became so obvious that even I could not live in denial anymore.

What could I do? It was too cold outside to run away and live with the hobos.  Grandma wouldn’t protect me.  She lived with us, and would be mad like the rest of them that there were no Christmas cookies to be had.  I could frame my younger brother. I knew he had sampled once or twice, but he would hotly deny any part in the crime, and besides, my honest face always managed to tell the truth when my lips did not.

There was only one solution: when the day of reckoning came, I would have to own up to my heinous deed and face the music. In the meantime, I might as well enjoy my sin, since I was going to have to pay for it anyway. I ate the rest of that cookie dough. All that remained were finger trails up the sides of the bowl.

Saturday morning I awoke with dread in my heart. I stayed in bed extra long, covers over my head, listening for sounds of impending doom from beneath me. I heard my mother’s footsteps on the basement stairs, the opening of the refrigerator door, the pounding up the stairs again, the seconds of silence before the storm.  And then it blew.

“Lee Ann! Gary! Get down here!” I crawled out of bed and sidled on down to the kitchen, guilt written all over my miserable face. “Who ate all the cookie dough???!!!”

“I did, I guess – but I think Gary helped some.”

“Not much. I only did it once,” my brother defended himself.

Mom did not morph into the ogre that I had expected. She was really annoyed, but after recovering from the initial shock, the novelty of one small girl eating an entire batch of cookie dough on the sneak without being discovered until the last scoop was gone hit her as being a tad funny. She didn’t tie me to any bedposts, lock me in the closet for a week, or put me on a diet of moldy bread and  pond water for the next thirty days, as my young imagination had supposed would be fitting punishments.  She didn’t ban me from eating Christmas cookies for the rest of my life, either. Her lip twitched slightly, as she tried to hide the eventual smile.

“I guess we will have to make a new batch. This time maybe we’d better not wait another whole week before we get around to baking them.”

Moms are wise beings. They learn from their mistakes the first time around. I think I did, too. Not so much as a smidgeon prematurely departed from that cookie dough bowl in the interval before the next baking day.

LeeAnnRubsam.com

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