thelifeandtimesofagingersnap
The Life & Times of a Gingersnap
From oven to mouth and all the stops in between: the story of one small cookie and all those who helped it along its journey.
8 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
Text
Diagnosis
The first gust of cool air to cast over us as our baker pulls us from the fiery oven is clean and crisp. We are carted off the hot metal tray and onto a cooling rack in the baker’s kitchen counter. Before our temperature reaches equilibrium, a man enters.
“Hi hon,” he says to our baker. She forces a smile back at him. “What are you doing?” He looks over at us.
“I’m baking,” she says back to him.
“Hon, it’s 3:00 AM, come back to bed.”
“I can’t.” She turns. From my perspective I can see her wipe an emerging tear away with her thumb. “I have an order for Dela’s that I need to deliver tomorrow.”
“Hon, just take an extra few days. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“I can’t afford to lose a client right now, David.” She turns to him. “We can’t afford to lose a client right now.” He takes a step towards her. “And besides,” she moves around the kitchen island to maneuver away from him, “it’s not like I can possibly sleep anyway.”
“Sharon...” He continues to follow her around the kitchen. “It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it, though? I should’ve seen it earlier. I did see it earlier, but I let that stupid doctor talk me into ‘waiting it out.’” She holds up her fingers in air quotes on this last string of words.
“It’s not your fault,” the man repeats. “And blame doesn’t help at this point.”
“I want him with a new doctor, anyway.”
“Then we’ll get him a new doctor.”
“I knew, David. I knew something was wrong and I still didn’t do anything. I knew his eye contact was off. I knew he should’ve been talking by now. I knew he should have been smiling back at us. I’m a horrible mother”
Our baker has finally stopped moving and the man pulls her into a hug. “You’re not a horrible mother. We know now, that’s what we need to focus on. We know now and we are going to get him the supports he needs. This isn’t the end of the world. He’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”
Our baker says nothing, only lets out a wavering sigh.
“I’ll deliver the cookies to Dela’s tomorrow,” the man says.
0 notes
Text
Dela’s Cafe & Catering
The other cookies and I are unveiled from our decorative ceramic plate. I recognize the man from the kitchen last night looming over us. Across from him is a young man in an apron, I’d guess was in his early twenties. We appear to be in some sort of kitchen. More advanced than our baker’s kitchen. A restaurant perhaps. The older man and the younger man exchange pleasantries, the younger man writes the older man a cheque, and he departs with a feigned smile.
We are then brought to a glass counter that overlooks a quaint little cafe. We have a prime view from the shelf next to the till. The man, who I gather to be the clerk of the establishment, graces us with a folded slip of paper, “GINGERSNAPS $1.25” scrawled across one side in red Sharpie.
One by one as the day progresses our numbers dwindle until only I remain on our plate.
It’s gotten late, the cafe must surely be closing soon. The bell on the door chimes as a young man enters.
“Hey,” the clerk says, clearly recognizing the man. Clearly being caught of guard.
“Hey,” the man says back.
“How have you been,” the clerk asks faux-casually.
“Been good, what’ve you been up to?”
“Ya know, College,” he says, “here.” He gestures to my glass counter and the rest of the food items on display.
The man chuckles. “Nice.”
The clerk stares at him as his eyes wander around the shop, slowly walking towards my counter. “So... do you need something?”
“Uh, no.” He continues to avoid the clerk’s gaze. “I was just in the neighborhood. Wondered if you were still working here...” He’s reached the register by this point.
“Well,” the clerk says, “I do.” He shrugs, laughing, still on egde.
“Apparently.” The man puts a hand on the counter and becomes deeply invested in the muffins in next to me. “What are these?”
They continue to make small talk, catching up, avoiding some elephant in the room by the looks of it. The man was still at University of Florida, doing well in most of his classes. He’d failed Physics, but I guess that wasn’t a big deal. His mom was getting married. His sister got into NYU. He had an internship in the city that he took the train to on Mondays and Wednesdays. He said he was doing well, but the clerk seems to know he’s lying. He calls him out.
“I miss you,” the man says finally. Ah, the elephant, I presume.
The clerk seems to stop himself before he could respond on instinct.
“Other guys have come and gone,” the man says, “but you were always at the back of my mind.”
“Andy,” the clerk says, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you want to get back together,” the man says, hopeful.
The bell on the door chimes again, interrupting them. A young woman enters and approaches the counter. “I’ll have your last gingersnap, please.” And like that, I’m whisked away.
0 notes
Text
Oatmeal Brethren
We arrive to a basement apartment a short walk from Dela’s and I’m dropped onto a kitchen counter to be ignored for the next several hours. Two women and a man inhabit this dwelling, and after each of them feeds themselves separately, they congregate at the table, each in their own world.
“Do any of us even eat oatmeal,” one of the women asks.
The man looks up from his phone, caught off guard by the sudden speech. The second woman seems equally phased. She, however appears to have been torn from a nap in her seat at the head of the table rather than Instagram. The first woman holds one of the three unopened boxes of instant oatmeal on display, as if the others were unfamiliar with the concept.
“I don’t,” the man says, turning to the second woman, expecting a counter.
“Me neither.” She surprises him.
“Then why do we have so much?” The first woman continues to examine the box, as if the answer might be in the nutrition facts.
“I think Ron bought it, right?” The second woman looks to the man: Ron, presumably.
“I mean that’s entirely possible. I’d buy tampons if they were on sale, to be honest,” he admits. Both women chuckle.
“Well if no one’s gonna eat any of this anyway, then there’s no harm in trying out this oatmeal cookie recipe I found on Google.” The first woman tears open the box on the counter and removes one of the brown packets.
“You can do that?” The second woman asks.
“Allegedly. There’s this really complex one that calls for a bunch of stuff that we don’t have, but then this other one just says sugar and butter.”
“Do we need like raisins or something,” the man asks.
“God, no,” the first woman says. “I was thinking maybe chocolate chips but I don’t see them here.” She checks behind the granola bars but to no avail.
“Behind the Cheerios,” the secondwoman offers.
“What other stuff do we need?” the man stands up and pours himself a glass of water.
“Just the butter and the sugar.”
“We’ve got sugar cubes right?” He opens the lower cabinet to search.
“Not enough, though.” The second woman has risen and acquired the butter.
“I figured we’d use all that brown sugar we have. It’s like the same thing, maybe.” The first woman reaches up and pulls over one of the two 500 gram bags of brown sugar, which inexplicably accompany me on the counter.
The first woman combines the four ingredients in a mixing bowl, which is actually a medium saucepan while the man covers a baking sheet in tin foil.
“Do we need to to preheat the oven,” the second woman asks.
“Oh.” The first woman consults the recipe on her phone. “Uhh, no.”
“Um...”
“Oh wait, yes, three-fifty.”
“Okay.”
“That looks too liquid-y to be able to make cookies,” the man observes.
“Yeahhh,” They both drag out the final vowel for a few seconds. It’s unclear who picked up that habit from whom, but I’ve been hearing all three of them do it.
“Maybe some flour?”
“Yeahhh, that might do it.”
They add flour.
“Now I think it’s too like, starchy.” The first woman raises the spoon caked with unmixed flour.
“What about like an egg?”
“Yeahhh, that’s kind of liquid-y.”
They add egg.
“And maybe some cinnamon, ‘cause why not?”
“Sure.”
“What about like, vanilla extract?”
“Yeahhh, that goes in stuff, I feel like.”
“Or like baking soda?”
“Oh yeah, we never get to use that stuff.”
“Salt?”
“Definitely not.”
“Yeah, no.”
Eventually they achieve a consistency that satisfies all three of them and they manage eleven circles across the tin foil.
“I think I’d rather that gingersnap I got from Dela’s, to be honest,” the first woman says, rising from her chair and approaching me. Her hand topples me out of my comfortable wax paper cave and into her other hand. The other two watch my final moments indifferently as I approach the first woman’s parted lips. I came into this world from a kitchen. I depart this world from a kitchen.
0 notes
Video
youtube
Sweet and simple oatmeal cookies 🍪🍪🍪 Refined sugar and oil-free, vegan, plant-based and nourishing with only four ingredients! 🌙
https://youtu.be/SfcaLIfliVM
40 notes
·
View notes