Even though we are crazier than a box of rabid raccoons and we’re mean and ornery and sometimes burn our eyelashes off while attempting to learn how to breath fire (Butcher), there are still some people left on the planet who enjoy spending time with our family.
Ha, okay, let’s just side-track here for a second. We’re about to talk about chocolate chip cookie dough, but I was thinking about my crazy family and all of a sudden I was reminded of the winter when we lived next door to the church and there was a huge gravel parking lot out behind the church and one wintry Saturday it had completely iced over. There was a good three or four inches of ice on the parking lot, and it was pretty smooth.
So, my dad, who was supposed to be snowblowing, instead put on his ice skates, and–I wish I had the pictures of this–wearing a bright red sweatsuit and a big black fur-lined hat and big black mittens, he skated around the parking lot.
My dad is a showman. It’s part of what makes him a good preacher and also what makes him a difficult person. He’s always got to be the center of attention. But that morning, in the early dawn, he didn’t think he’d be seen at all. We were all supposed to still be asleep.
And there he was, gliding effortlessly across the ice, one large lone Midwesterner looping around a frozen parking lot, lost in his thoughts.
What you learn about men when you see them when they think no one is looking can tell you a lot about them, I think.
Anyway, chocolate chip cookie dough.
From the time I was old enough to grab a spoon, we’ve always eaten a portion of our chocolate chip cookies raw. Even now, it makes me sick as shit to do it and so I don’t do it very often, but there’s nothing that makes me feel more like a member of my family than sitting down with a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough, especially if it has oatmeal in it, and eating it with a big glass of milk.
And, in fact, if one wants to be accepted into our family, one must be happy about eating raw cookie dough. Sure, the raw eggs pose a slight health risk. But that’s what bonds us together–the thrill of staring death in the face and then eating it–or something.
Anyway, I used to think it was the raw egg which would make me feel like shit the next day, but my mom is convinced that it’s actually the baking powder. She says she’s been experimenting, and, if she leaves it out of the dough she intends to eat, it doesn’t make her feel gross.
And, America, that is why I love my mom.
Sure, now, she’s teaching little kids how to read, but in her soul, she’s a scientist, experimenting away on how we can continue out family traditions and feel good about it.