Six years old and I’m standing at the edge
Of the counter, standing on a chair, my feet
Raised to the tip toes, peering into the bowl
In front of me, the wooden spoon in my hands
(It was longer than my own arms) smoothing
The first layer of sugar and vanilla into batter .
My grandfather took the whisk, stirred the batter,
Gave me a bag of chocolate I poured over the edge
Of the bowl, then I watched as he smoothed
And stirred so forcefully flour fell on his foot.
He pinched a little taste and put some in my hand,
Even though I had been sneaking from the bowl
For quite some time. I would steal from the bowl
Quick spoonfuls, stolen bites of cookie batter,
And it wasn’t until a glop fell onto my hand
That my grandfather lifted me off of the edge
Of the counter and placed my floured feet
On the ground. He greased the baking sheet smooth.
With no one to ruin the even smoothness
of the cookie mix sitting inside the blue bowl,
Soon little mounds lined up in rows, four feet
Of little cookie dough balls, then watched the batter
Sink and rise, my pressed my nose against the oven edge
and waited until I could hold in my hand.
Twenty minutes later, cookie in (both) hands,
We both sat on the couch, and my cheek felt smooth
Against the leather armrest of the sofa’s edge.
After two batches we had taken spoons to the bowl,
while my grandmother shook her head, ate batter
In gulps and spoonfuls. The footrest held our feet
And my grandmother joked about the number of feet
We would add to our waistline. I lifted my hand
To my stomach and regretted all the batter
I had stolen earlier. My grandfather’s smooth
Face was pale, regretting the amount taken from the bowl.
My grandma saw us, laughed, stretching her mouth’s edge.
She held the counter’s edge,
Her knuckles red and white against the smoothness
Of the granite, and she picked up the spoon from the bowl.