Friday, February 20, 2015

Shortbread

My kids came home with small packages of Lorna Doone cookies last week, a Valentine's Day procurement from their parties at school.  Neither kid liked them, disappointment by their blandness.

I always felt the same way when I was their age.  I just opened up one of their discarded packages and ate half of one.  A memory came back to me.  When I was a teenager, my grandmother used to drive her mother-in-law, my great-grandmother, every week to Kroger so she could buy her groceries.  I sometimes went with them and every time would end up standing in the cookie aisle with Granny Ford for long minutes as she decided what to choose.  Iced oatmeal.  Fig Newtons.  Oreos.  Soft-batch chocolate chip.  She'd stand there beside her buggy with her arms crossed, the same stance she took to watch her stories in the afternoons, as if she knew she was 'above' watching soaps and was just on her way out of the room, not really paying too close attention while actually paying such close attention that she could recount dialogue later on the phone with her granddaughters who lived in Birmingham.

She always, every single time, chose the Lorna Doones.

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