Lemon Drop Love
A bear climbing a tree sits upon my kitchen counter in the form of a cracked brown cookie jar, but I'd say it's been decades since cookies saw the inside of that jar. My favorite was the lemon drop; crescent moons laced with powdered clouds that would melt in my mouth like freshly drawn honey.
Nana always said, "There are no problems, just situations that need tending." When I was old enough to handle the rolling pin, I wasn't tall enough to reach the stone counter. "We'll take care of that," said Nana, as she walked to the pantry and came back smiling, presenting a step stool hand crafted by my grandfather. "Here we go my love." She had so many loves. Even Mrs. McDonough's dog across the street was a "my love". When she said it to me, I knew by the softness of in her voice that I was the nonpareil "my love", but that was after Papa died.
When I began to roll the dough, flour heavy in the air, she held her hands over mine and I couldn't help but notice we shared identical thumbs. When my first batch of cookies were done, some of the moons looked like suns and others looked like broken stars, but that didn't matter to Nana. "They are perfect," she said, wiping the tear from the corner of my familial eye with the thumb that could be my own. When she touched me, I liked the way the lemon on her finger caught my nose, and stung my skin.
When Nana passed away, my mother asked me, "Is there anything in particular you'd like to have to remember Nana by?" And of course I said, "The cookie jar," without hesitation. We made copies of her handwritten recipes. Some had tears and tape, others stains, perhaps vanilla abstract, chocolate sauce and molasses to name a few.
Since my glucose and my weight were no longer companionable with cookies, and because Nana's cookie jar just had to stay within sight, the beloved jar became a coin bank. From time to time, when I empty my spare change from my Coach bag into the jar, I can't help but imagine the moon the stars and the sun. At those moments the room begins to fill with the scent of lemon zest and I can almost hear her whisper, "How bout a batch of lemon drops, my love."