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Cookie from Hell My 9-year-old daughter Elizabeth revealed the necessity of making a California cookie during the car ride home from school. “It’s for extra credit. I can move a B to a B+, or an A- to an A. “Can we make one?” “Can you move a B+ to an A-?” I ask, ever the optimist, wanting to squeeze every drop of possibility from the situation. I see her nod to the affirmative in the rearview mirror. A little work for a big reward, I think. “Sure we can make one,” I reply, not really wanting to participate in yet another school project (groan), especially not caring to create a cookie in the shape of the Golden State. But seeing it as my parental duty, I agree to this seemingly small request. The wheels are turning as I think of the easiest way to fashion a cookie into the great state of California, and I identify a shortcut. For a work brunch last fall, I’d made a poster containing an outline of the state, and had made six puzzle pieces that represented clusters of counties that fit neatly into the outline. My duty halfway done, I visualize buying pre-made cookie dough at Von’s, coloring six portions of it with food coloring, then cutting out the map pieces after tracing them onto the rolled out dough. Piece of cake, I think, and smile to myself. Confident of my baking abilities, I wait until the night before the open-house, where all the fourth-graders will showcase their California cookies. I start with mashing a portion of the white dough with green food coloring. It’s approximately 7 PM. The color is hard to integrate into the greasy blob, and by the time it’s evenly spread, it’s warm and requires a dusting of flour. I roll the dough out, and place the Southern Californian map pattern atop the mass, so I can perforate the edges with a sharp knife. But the dough is now hot, and very sticky, requiring a gross of flour to keep it off the rolling pin. Elizabeth wants to help and digs into the bag of flour; sprinkling a handful across the cutting board, then dusting the kitchen. She anoints floor and counter with the fine white stuff, awaiting the possible arrival of flour fairies that may emerge any minute from the dense cloud now permeating the air. I attempt to peel the puzzle piece containing San Diego, San Bernadino, and Riverside counties from the wood. It stretches larger than an eight by ten piece of notebook paper. I place it onto the cookie sheet very carefully, trying not to let it elongate further. It consumes half the pan. Still no problem, I’ll just have to bake a couple counties at a time. Because of the high temperature of the dough, and the immense stretching factor, it takes two hours to cut and bake the six bits of our California cookie. The pieces are so large that when placed together, the cookie is approximately three feet long. A California cookie with Texas flare, I think and shrug. I notice that my hands are stained a scary murky brown from the combination of food coloring; they appear to be bleeding. I check the clock: 9:30. I’m tired and want to go to bed. What in the world am I doing here? But we still need to carefully wrap the baked puzzle in preparation for transport into the classroom tomorrow morning. It barely fits on two 12x19”cookie sheets, pointy ends hanging over the edge. To top it off, the width of the aluminum foil doesn’t even wrap around the larger pieces. I sense trouble with the masterpiece that will surely be the largest cookie in the classroom, perhaps the whole school, but forge ahead. Maybe she’ll get extra points for the size, I think, hopefully. But truthfully, deep down inside, I know that what I’ve produced is the cookie from hell. Morning comes, and I carry the two pans, cookie appendages poking out the sides, into the classroom, where the teacher points to a shelf next to the windows. Smiling, I prepare to assemble the project in its entirety for display next to the smaller, very detailed cookies already on the window shelf. The other cookies are beautiful, and definitely created more by parents than any fourth-grader, given the careful placement of chocolate chips for mountains, cute little symbols for cities, chocolate gold wrapped coins placed in mining country, and waves of blue icing representing Lake Tahoe and Yosemite Falls. One problem: our poster and cookie don’t fit on the shelf; they’re too big. “I’ll put it together after class on the back table,” Miss Boyd offers, smiling cheerfully. I realize that I’m the only one that can successfully put this monstrosity together and sigh, knowing that I’m not going to get the opportunity to do that. “Alright,” I say, thinking we can arrive early to the open house, and make sure the cookie is displayed properly. Due to a six o’clock piano lesson, we arrive at the open house after seven, and the classroom is already crowded with families. I scan the area, searching the far wall for our cookie. The teacher probably stuffed it into the corner, I think, anxiety rising. Maybe it was too much of an embarrassment and she just hid it somewhere. Miss Boyd points to a desk in the back of the room, where our giant cookie is not assembled, but pieces set askew on the poster board. I immediately approach it, and discover a new fault line across the Central Valley. “I’m sorry,” Miss Boyd says, but one of the pieces broke when I carried it over here. Oh, well, I think, at least it’s on display. Next afternoon while picking her up after school, I spot Elizabeth walking toward me with the two cookie tins stacked on top of each other. She’s laughing and happy. “Hi, Mom,” she says as I get out of the car to help her with the pans. I notice that only one piece of the cookie remains on the baking sheet. I look at her with raised brow, but before I ask, she answers. “The last five minutes of class, Miss Boyd let us eat all the cookies!” She grins, standing next to her best friend, who says, “Yours tasted best.” I smile to myself. The kids pounced; our California cookie tasted good, and they ate two-and-a-half feet of it. And really, what else matters? Kathleen Piché currently works as a Patients’ Rights Advocate/Training Coordinator for the Los Angeles County Department of Mental Health. Kathleen has worked with agencies such as the FBI, Attorney General’s Office, and the Department of Justice, investigating hospitals regarding psychiatric patient abuses, and has closed two free-standing psychiatric facilities over the past seven years. Kathleen is a licensed clinical social worker, has been a rock-and-roll radio disc jockey, and a model/ actress for print, television and film. She is also a single mother. She is currently working on her second novel about two female hospital detectives. You may visit her website at www.kathleenpiche.com.
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