Cookies from the Moon

A short, humorous nonfiction piece.

You told your mom you would bake her cookies for her 50 something birthday. You want to bake cookies. This is probably a step up from ramen, your only cooking experience. Cookies involve an oven. They have to bake. You can’t use just the microwave. They involve a multitude of ingredients. Scared yet? Your dad whispers, “Good luck” as you stare around the giant shiny spaceship of a kitchen. The shining steel fridge coupled with the stainless oven are where your controls lie. Gleaming green eyes stare back at you from the control panel. You brush a blonde strand of hair out of our eye and nod. Mission go.

            Start with the baby powder labeled “flour”, you toss it in a bowl with other dry ingredients. Next, try to put two eggs in another bowl with vanilla. Strange. Two bowls doesn’t seem very conservative. Also how are you supposed to mix hard eggs? A glance at the directions tells you to crack the eggs. Finally the karate class you had when you were 5 has a purpose. A well placed karate chop sends egg juices splashing across the counter top. A few tries later the yellow baby chickens are floating in alien juice in the red bowl bottom. Creepy. You ponder this while measuring out sugar. The thought soars out of your mind as you listen to the sugar shuffle out of the cup into the flour bowl. The sound is very chefly and you puff out your chest at the professionalism.

            Dad laid out the tools you need. You find a strange device. It looks like a torture tool. It comes with an assortment of cruel implements that could really hurt. A large stainless steel bowl is set next to it. Is it for the blood? You duck your head in shame as your dad shouts at you for trying to use the newly coined “mixer” on your brother in order to find where he hid your Pokémon game. Your dad hands you the two most boring, symmetrical tools and tells you to attach them to the mixer. They slide into the holes and settle with a click. That’s more like it, nice and simple. The mixer starts up with a whirring noise and begins to hum just like drill. You have two bowls in front of you that you have to mix together. Assuming it doesn’t matter which you start with you plop the flour bowl down on the mixer platform and lower the whirling blades.

            That was a mistake, you think as you wipe flour from the floor. Your mom is in the kitchen now offering assistance in the cooking. Dad stands behind her nodding furiously as the light glances off of his bald head. You look at the flour caked fridge, the flour crusted stove, and the flour flakes raining from the ceiling before replying with a big smile, “Nope, Bobby Flay had to start somewhere!” You continue scrubbing the floor and returning the kitchen to its pristine rocket interior visage.

            You’ve finished the cleaning and begin again on the cookies. You mix your flour, sugar, and salt . . . again, then you promptly start mixing the wet ingredients while slowly pouring in the dry, explosive flour. The instructions tell you to adjust the mixer settings up to 5 in order to beat the mixture together, as you know the instructions are only guidelines. You crank the mixer up to 7 and brown globs of deliciousness fly out and splat on the walls. The dial flies down to 5 at the same time your mom storms into the kitchen. You smile and look back at the recipe running your finger across the chocolate chip bag as if you are following the directions.

“Do you need…” She starts.

“Quit ruining your birthday, go somewhere else and help.” You interrupt with a grin.

 She smiles back and you shoo her out. She almost comments on the cookie dough oozing down the pantry door, but she decides not too as you are already hard at work on your cookies again.

            You mix in the chocolate chips, then heap a spoonful of creamy dough and shove it in your mouth. The butter and sugar melt like ice and fill your taste buds with wonder. You look at the recipe again and realize that the oven needs to be on. You jab the bake button and smash the up arrow until the glowing display reads 375. The oven yawns as it wakes up and begins to warm, so you sit down in a chair and rest your head to wait for the beep. 

            Beep. Beep. Beep. Your head flies up at the sound and you look around. Smoke is filling the room and the fire alarm continues to yell at you. Your mom is screaming bloody murder and your dad is calmly fanning the smoke away from the detector. You see the wrathful look in your mom’s eyes and quickly begin to open doors and let the smoke out. You find out that you were supposed to remove the rolls that your mom had left sitting in the oven. Apparently it keeps them warm. How were you supposed to know?

            The smoke is cleared so you go back to your cookies. A long baking sheet that you used to use as a toy shield is what you are supposed to put them on so you meticulously begin shoveling the hardened dough onto the tray. You try to make them all the same size, but due to a major lack of skill and way too much caffeine they are all different shapes and sizes. The chocolate chips make them look lumpy and less appealing, but you know that once they are baked in the now smoke-free oven they will look amazing.

            You slide the baking sheet full of oddly shaped lumps into the oven and set the cook timer for 18 minutes. You decide that is enough time to play a match on Call of Duty so you turn on your Xbox and begin playing after one match you still have time to play another. The beeping comes from the kitchen to let you know that you are done but you are on a killing spree.

“Mom! Can you get that I’m really busy right now. Today’s not all about you, I need help.” You yell across the vast expanse of your house. Loud, angry shouting echoes through the walls but your headset blocks most of it. You secure your care package and begin looking for another kill. You finish the match and head to the kitchen to get a cookie.

            The oven is smoking again. You throw down the door and grab the baking sheet. Profanities roar out of your mouth as the burning metal deals its retribution on your unprotected fingers. Your dad runs to the rescue and grabs the tray while you hop on one leg clutching your hand to your white NASA t-shirt. His yell wakes the night-shift neighbors across the road. He begins an interpretive dance in almost the same style as you. Of course your brother knows what to do so he pulls strange mittens out of a drawer. You run cold water over your incinerated fingers while your brother uses his fancy fireproof mittens to pull the cookies out of the oven. The cookies are completely ruined, but you have to give your mom something for her birthday. You know that she likes heartfelt gifts and the cookies would have been perfect.

            Dad takes you to the store to find another gift. The card is easy to find since you know exactly what your mother likes. A gift not so much. After hours of shopping, crying, and shopping some more you finally decide what to give her and call it a day.

            Your mom opens the box and her face transforms before your eyes. She pulls out the purple card adorned with planets and reads it aloud, “Yes they are burnt, but I tried really hard. I love you to the moon and back Mommy.” She looks at you for a second her brown eyes widen and her eyebrows contract into a concentrated V. Then she lifts one of the charcoal bricks that you call cookies and says, “You’re thirty you should know how to make cookies by now.”

Reviews

[LastMonth]

Hahahaha!
Good one.

The storytelling is quite good.
Though I'll say this,
Without the twist, the story works just fine the way it is.

With the twist, I believe the story could be somewhat shorter and still deliver the punch.
The twist is hilarious, I really like it, don't get me wrong. And I'm never going to tell a guy 'Hi Mate, your story is too long.'

But the thing is, -if- the story does culiminate in something of that sort, a powerful and delightful twist like that-- It does not necesserily need all that buildup.

But then again, it is not -that- long. Smeh.
Just my thoughts,

I really loved it though.

[Hunter Hughes]

Glad you liked it! I see what you're saying about the buildup, there are definitely a few sentences that could be removed and allow the story to keep flowing; albeit shorter which might lead to a better punch. Thanks for the input!