The Cookie Disaster

Mother was admitted to hospital on a Tuesday in June 1960, and a couple of days later, she had surgery. However, she had complications, and her stay would be indefinite. After getting off work, Father would drive over to the hospital, spending time with Mother until visiting hours were over. She was in what they called Intensive Care, and kids were not permitted in that hospital unit. So, we sent drawings and messages with Dad to give to Mother. We were told we could visit her once she had been moved downstairs to an ordinary room.

A friend of the family, Mary C., stayed with my brother and me until Dad got home. Her brother, Joe, would always come to drive her home. I didn’t think much of her, as she spent most of her time on the couch reading books and smoking, throwing her cigarette butts and used matches across the floor, aiming for the metal hearth plate under our sawdust-burning stove. Father smoked cigarettes too, but he always used an ashtray to put out his cigarette. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t do the same. I swept up matches and butts more times than I should have so that the floor would be clean when Dad arrived home. When he drove into the dooryard, she would jump up from the couch, close her book, and sit at the table.

Saturday rolled around, and Mary arrived later than her usual time, long after Father left for work. My brother and I were having our cereal and juice, watching cartoons on television, when she came through the door. There was no explanation of why she was late, but then we were just 10-year-old kids, so I guess she felt no explanation was necessary. Father phoned about a half hour later; she talked with him on the telephone but never mentioned what time she had arrived.

The morning slipped by quickly as we watched our favourite Saturday morning programs on TV, occasionally making a trip out to the kitchen for a drink of water—not that we needed water, but it was one way to see what she was doing. As usual, she lay on the couch with a book in one hand and a smoke in the other. She was supposed to make us lunch at noon but was apparently too engrossed in her book to be thinking of us kids, so we made our own peanut butter and jam sandwiches and headed back to the living room. The phone rang; she actually got up and answered it, talked for just a few minutes, and hung up. Not long afterwards, Joe arrived. She looked at us, said there’d been a family emergency and she had to leave. She told us to be good, watch TV, and stay out of trouble. She grabbed her jacket and book, and out the door she went.

My brother locked the kitchen door after Joe’s car left the yard, while I took one look at the butts and matches. Some had hit the metal hearth; others had not and were lying in the middle of the kitchen floor. Once again, I swept up the mess that she had flicked across the floor, and while doing so, I had a brilliant idea. I would make some cookies so Dad would have something sweet to go with his cup of tea after supper, which he would bring home.

I knew not to use the sawdust-burning stove in case of a chimney fire, but I also knew that in Mother’s recipe book, she had a recipe for no-bake chocolate cookies. I had never watched her make them, so this would be a first for me. Excitedly, I turned page after page in her handwritten recipe book, and then there it was: “No-bake chocolate cookies (family favourite).” All I needed was three cups quick-cooking oats, one cup sweetened flaked coconut, two cups white sugar, ½ cup cocoa powder, ½ cup milk, and ½ cup butter. Under the list of ingredients, she had written: Mix oats and coconut in a large bowl until thoroughly combined. In another bowl, stir sugar, cocoa powder, milk, and butter together. B 2 minutes. Add to the mixed oats and coconut; mix thoroughly. Drop tablespoonfuls onto wax paper until cookies are firm.

Now, that sounded simple enough, but as I read the recipe over, I had no idea that the “B 2” meant something other than what I thought it stood for, as she had not written out what it meant in her book. Of course she didn’t need to, as she knew this recipe by heart.

So, with Mother’s apron on, I was ready to begin. I set to work getting out her large bowls, measuring cup, and the required ingredients. In the first bowl, I mixed the oats and the coconut as the directions said. In the second bowl went the sugar, cocoa powder, milk, and butter. The directions that Mother had written next said to “B 2 minutes”… so with her wooden spoon, I then beat for two minutes, stirring the ingredients vigorously to blend everything all together. I then added this smooth mixture to the oats and coconut. I then spread wax paper on the dining room table and began dropping tablespoons of the mixture onto it. Eighteen cookies were now ready to firm up. They looked perfect, so deep down inside, I praised myself for doing everything just right. For those of you who are familiar with this recipe, you’ll know by now that everything was NOT, just right.

I washed up the bowls, measuring cup, and the wooden spoon, dried them, and placed them back where I had found them. I checked the cookies and tried to lift one off the wax paper, but it was not yet firm—still gooey. I had no idea how long it was going to take for them to firm up, but when Mother made them, it didn’t seem to take very long.

My brother and I watched more children’s programs on TV, and during the commercials, we would go to the dining room to see if the cookies were ready to eat. But they were still not firm. By the time Father arrived home with supper in hand, those cookies were still gooey.

His first question was, “Where is Mary?” So, we explained she had left; a family emergency, she said. He wasn’t thrilled that we had been left alone, but it appeared we were okay, so he went on to his next question as we sat at the kitchen table enjoying the KFC that he had brought home. “So, what have you two been up to this afternoon?”

My brother and I exchanged glances, which Father noticed. “We watched some programs on the television,” I said, and then with tears welling up in my eyes, I blurted out, “I made you some cookies, but they’re not fit to eat.”

Father heard the sound of extreme disappointment in my voice and asked, “Did you use the stove?”

“Oh no,” I quickly replied, “I found Mother’s cookbook with the no-bake cookie recipe.” He then asked, “Where are they?”

In unison, my brother and I replied, “They’re on the dining room table.”

“Well then, let’s go have a look at them,” Father said.

To the dining room we went. “These cookies have sat here all afternoon; they were supposed to firm up, but they are still gooey,” I said as I tried to lift one off the wax paper to show Father. The three of us stood there looking down at my cookie disaster.

Father didn’t say a word, just a “Hmmmm.” Father was thinking. Then, out of the blue, he asked, “Do you know where Mom keeps her cookie sheets?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then please go get me one.” Within seconds, I was handing him the cookie sheet. “Now, do you know where Mom keeps her pancake turner?”

I ran out to the kitchen and brought him the pancake turner. He carefully eased the turner under each of the gooey globs, lifting them off the wax paper and plopping each one onto the cookie sheet. “These 12 cookies should be firm in no time,” he said as we watched him take the cookie sheet to the freezer. He opened the freezer door, rearranged the frozen items that were in there, and placed the cookie sheet on top of them. He closed the freezer door and said, “Now let’s go finish eating our supper.”

Once we had finished supper and helped Father wash up what supper dishes we had used, he made a pot of tea. Next came the trip to the freezer. He brought out the cookie sheet and lifted a firm cookie. Taking a bite, he said, “Not bad at all; in fact, I think I’ll take another one,” as he handed a cookie to each of us. The cookies were cold, but firm and tasty. Father then placed the remaining gooey cookies onto the cookie sheet, and they too landed in the freezer.

A couple of months later, when Mother was home again, having made a full recovery, I finally broke the news to her of what I had done while she was in the hospital. Little did I know Father had already told her of my cookie-making on his next visit to the hospital. She pulled out her cookbook, turning to the recipe, knowing exactly why my cookies ended up being gooey. “The B2,” she said, “meant boil mixture on the stove for two minutes.” Needless to say, I never made that same mistake again.

I wish Mother was alive today to read my story so she could get another chuckle, as she did that day in the hospital when Father told her of my day in the kitchen.