She’d started working at Lincoln Elementary three years ago in 1979, when Faith was still a student there. Susan, who’d attended the same church as the Bennetts, recommended Anne for the job.
The only challenge was that Anne had to work with several of the teachers, helping them however they needed her. The good news? Her days were varied and interesting. The bad news? She had to get to know one new person after another. Susan helped her during those first challenging months, and now, three years later, Anne knew all the teachers well and was comfortable working with them.
Except for those rare days when one asked her to stay later than usual. Days like today. Anne glanced at the clock again.
“Don’t worry, Anne. Seventh-grade classes won’t be out for another half hour.”
Susan knew her so well. “I promised Faith I’d have cookies ready when she got home today. Just want to make sure I get home in time to keep that promise.”
“Mmm, gonna make enough to bring some to work tomorrow?”
Anne laughed. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Well, then—” Susan fluttered her hands at her—“get yourself home, woman! Time’s a’wastin’!”
The oven timer went off, and Anne pulled the oven door open. A steamy cloud burst free of the oven, surrounding her with mouth-watering fragrances as she slid out the sheet of cookies.
What was it about fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies that made you feel like a kid again?
Keeping a firm hold on the large pan of golden brown treats, she popped the oven door shut with her hip, then she grinned. Faith had tried to teach her how to … what was it she called it? Oh yes,
boogie
. Much to her chagrin and her teenage daughter’s amusement, Anne had been an utter failure at boogying—all except for the hip sway. Years in the kitchen had refined Anne’s hip action to a near art form.
She chuckled, sliding the spatula under the cookies and easing them onto the brown paper bags spread over the counter. Faith could never understand why Anne used paper bags this way.
“You’ve got cookie racks, Mom,” she’d say, her tone of voice communicating how silly she thought her mother was.
Obviously, contrary to Faith’s own opinion, her almost-thirteen-year-old
didn’t
know everything. “My mother used brown paper bags, and I use brown paper bags. Besides—” Anne always added a wink here, for good measure—“it makes the cookies taste better.”
Faith stopped arguing that point. She loved the soft, gooey, fresh-from-the-oven cookies as much as Anne did. And she always said Anne’s cookies tasted better than any other mother’s.
Anne smiled. It had to be the brown paper bags.
She scooped more dough onto the cookie sheets, glancing at the clock again. With any luck, she’d timed it just right, and this last batch would come out of the oven right before Faith got home.
Sure enough, no sooner had Anne filled a plate with the hot cookies and set it and a glass of milk on the table, than the door flew open and Faith breezed in, all knees and elbows and grins. “Hi ya, Mom!”
Anne straightened and returned Faith’s grin. “Hi yourself, Daughter.”
Dumping her schoolbooks on the table, Faith lifted her face and sniffed the air. Her eyes lit up, and she leaped over to throw her arms around Anne and give her a bear hug. “Yum! Home always smells so
good
!”
Anne laughed and tousled her daughter’s hair. “Put your things away in your room, hon.”
“I will.” Faith grabbed a handful of cookies and her glass of milk, then hopped up onto the kitchen counter. Anne sat at the table; dunking a cookie into her glass of milk; listening as Faith rattled on, giving a running account of her day; and doing her best to follow it all. She knew she should remind Faith about not sitting on the counter, but she just couldn’t make herself do it. It might not be sanitary, but Anne loved these times when Faith couldn’t seem to get enough of sharing her day with
The only challenge was that Anne had to work with several of the teachers, helping them however they needed her. The good news? Her days were varied and interesting. The bad news? She had to get to know one new person after another. Susan helped her during those first challenging months, and now, three years later, Anne knew all the teachers well and was comfortable working with them.
Except for those rare days when one asked her to stay later than usual. Days like today. Anne glanced at the clock again.
“Don’t worry, Anne. Seventh-grade classes won’t be out for another half hour.”
Susan knew her so well. “I promised Faith I’d have cookies ready when she got home today. Just want to make sure I get home in time to keep that promise.”
“Mmm, gonna make enough to bring some to work tomorrow?”
Anne laughed. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Well, then—” Susan fluttered her hands at her—“get yourself home, woman! Time’s a’wastin’!”
The oven timer went off, and Anne pulled the oven door open. A steamy cloud burst free of the oven, surrounding her with mouth-watering fragrances as she slid out the sheet of cookies.
What was it about fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies that made you feel like a kid again?
Keeping a firm hold on the large pan of golden brown treats, she popped the oven door shut with her hip, then she grinned. Faith had tried to teach her how to … what was it she called it? Oh yes,
boogie
. Much to her chagrin and her teenage daughter’s amusement, Anne had been an utter failure at boogying—all except for the hip sway. Years in the kitchen had refined Anne’s hip action to a near art form.
She chuckled, sliding the spatula under the cookies and easing them onto the brown paper bags spread over the counter. Faith could never understand why Anne used paper bags this way.
“You’ve got cookie racks, Mom,” she’d say, her tone of voice communicating how silly she thought her mother was.
Obviously, contrary to Faith’s own opinion, her almost-thirteen-year-old
didn’t
know everything. “My mother used brown paper bags, and I use brown paper bags. Besides—” Anne always added a wink here, for good measure—“it makes the cookies taste better.”
Faith stopped arguing that point. She loved the soft, gooey, fresh-from-the-oven cookies as much as Anne did. And she always said Anne’s cookies tasted better than any other mother’s.
Anne smiled. It had to be the brown paper bags.
She scooped more dough onto the cookie sheets, glancing at the clock again. With any luck, she’d timed it just right, and this last batch would come out of the oven right before Faith got home.
Sure enough, no sooner had Anne filled a plate with the hot cookies and set it and a glass of milk on the table, than the door flew open and Faith breezed in, all knees and elbows and grins. “Hi ya, Mom!”
Anne straightened and returned Faith’s grin. “Hi yourself, Daughter.”
Dumping her schoolbooks on the table, Faith lifted her face and sniffed the air. Her eyes lit up, and she leaped over to throw her arms around Anne and give her a bear hug. “Yum! Home always smells so
good
!”
Anne laughed and tousled her daughter’s hair. “Put your things away in your room, hon.”
“I will.” Faith grabbed a handful of cookies and her glass of milk, then hopped up onto the kitchen counter. Anne sat at the table; dunking a cookie into her glass of milk; listening as Faith rattled on, giving a running account of her day; and doing her best to follow it all. She knew she should remind Faith about not sitting on the counter, but she just couldn’t make herself do it. It might not be sanitary, but Anne loved these times when Faith couldn’t seem to get enough of sharing her day with
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