We got cake.

We celebrate birthdays at work each month.  The big wigs query the birthday celebrants, and then purchase whatever treat is requested.  Everyone then gathers around the conference table trough and enjoys the bounty.

A normal person wouldn’t be thrown into a tizzy when these gatherings occur, but this girl never said she was normal.  Fact is, I have no control when free sweets enter the picture.  Don’t really know whether it’s the free or the sweet that sets me off, but I’m guessing it all stems from my mother’s cookie rule.

As kids, we’d gather in the tiny kitchen while Mom mixed sugar and flour and eggs in a shiny bowl.  The same wooden spoon that stung our small butts would whirl in Mom’s hand, whipping those ingredients into a heavenly dough.  We’d eye that dough, and silently prefer it to the baked cookies – although frankly, the cookies were also delicious.

But this was the issue.  We wanted cookie dough.  And we wanted a great gob of cookie dough.

Mom would acquiesce to our relentless pleas only when she had scraped the mixing bowl free of both dough and paint.  Then she’d slide the bowl across the table to one of us.  Another would receive the wooden spoon to lick.   Neither spoon nor bowl held anything remotely related to dough – Mom made sure of that.  All that remained was a slight hint of sugar, and that was enough to send us into ignorant ecstacy.

No dough for you!

As an adult, I purposefully made cookies during one of my mother’s visits to my home.  She sat perched on a stool at the breakfast bar while I mixed the batch.  Our banter was comfortable and familiar, and she kept close tabs on my work.  She wasn’t tempted in the least by the mixture I was blending.

It was one of my great adult moments when, after locking eyes with Mom, I shoved a heaping spoonful of raw cookie dough into my mouth. 

She was silent for less than a breath and then scolded, “God!  You’ll get SICK.”  

The second spoonful was even more delicious than the first.  And I never felt better.

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