There are so many treats I enjoyed years ago; I can’t have now, because I’m a diabetic. However, if I could eat any food I wanted with no repercussions, it would be homemade chocolate chip cookies, hot soft and gooey when coming out of the oven.
I have such fond childhood memories of baking them with my brothers. There very first time my brother and I ever baked chocolate was when we were very little, back in early elementary school. We were not supervised. Our mother was sitting in the dining room figuring out the monthly bills.
On our own accord, we decided to bake the chocolate chip cookies from a recipe we found in our children’s cookbook. My brother John added the ingredients into the mixing bowl. I preset the oven. Stanley helped John mixing the ingredients together with a spatula, because we weren’t allowed to use our mother’s mixer, for fear we’d get our fingers caught in it while the electric whisk spun in the mixing.
I greased cookie pans, helping my brothers scoop out the cookie dough, shaping it into little balls, arranging them on the cookie pan. Carefully, I placed them into the oven.
An hour went by, and kitchen got a little smoky. My mother entered the kitchen to check on things. Opening the oven door, she pulled out the cookie pans with pot holders, placing them on top of the stove.
:”They’re burned,” my brother Stanley cried in disappointment.
I ran into the kitchen to see what was going on. Upon viewing the burnt cookies in the pan, I smacked my hands against the sides of my head in distress, and began to cry. “I don’t understand it. I know very well we followed the instructions. Why did the cookies come out burnt?”
“Let me see what the instructions say in your cookbook, Kiki,” my mother suggested while walking over to the counter to examine the instructions within the cookbook, “According to the instructions, you were supposed to preheat the oven to 350 degrees. But you preheated it to 375 degrees, honey. That’s why they burned.”
“I figured if I preheated the oven to 375 degrees, they’d be done faster. I’m never making chocolate chip cookies or anything again. The cookies are ruined, and it’s all my fault,” I shrieked, while waving my arms up and down in frustration.
“It’s no big deal. Only the bottom of the cookies are charred. The top part is alright. All we have to do is scrape off the black char from the cookies with a a butter knife. I guarantee they’ll be tasty enough to eat, especially when you kids dip them into your milk,” my mother assured me, while walking over to the silverware drawer, pulling out a butter knife, heading back over to the stove, and scraped the char from the bottoms of our cookies.
She placed them into a big plate. I was surprised about them having a crisp, tender texture. I thought they would be hard like rocks,, but they weren’t. They were crispy on the outside and moist on the inside, with the little pieces of chocolate chip melted into the center.
My brothers and I dipped the cookies into our glasses of milk. The sweet, gooey, chocolaty cookies tantalized my pallet, and enticed my taste buds. Our mother said they were the best chocolate chip cookies she’d ever tasted.
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015