As I was watching an NFL game on TV between the Eagles and the Lions, my mind wandered to a house miles and miles away. It was a small house, made all the smaller by the seven people living in it, always very loud and crammed by the many distant relatives and friends that would frequently come by for the 2010 holidays.

My mom, overwhelmed by the constant flow of relatives who seemed to think there unexpected visit and demand for food was a pleasant surprise, searched for a food that would be easy to make, yet would satisfy the oncoming hordes of third cousins and old family friends long forgotten. She hastened to a small box of family recipes, flipped through the index cards, and found something to use.

Jamming the card into my hands, she instructed me to follow the recipe exactly while she tried to fend off the ever hungry guests. I quickly followed the card, not knowing what I was making, having been in too big of a rush to start.

Poring over the perfect measurements I was sure to check and double check the instructions, so that I was not to insert too much butter or not enough sugar. As I vigorously stirred the bowl of what seemed to be some sort of dough, the incredibly delicious smell drifted into my nose.

Rushing to the kitchen door to make sure no one was coming towards the kitchen, my mom being busy pouring various forms of alcoholic beverages into the glasses of increasingly demanding relatives, I rushed back towards the bowl of the enticing substance.

I picked up the spoon and chanced a lick, and then a rush of delicious tastes: buttery, salty, and sweet all at the same time. I devoured many more chunks of the dough before remembering my duty.

Once again picking up the recipe card, I read the second to last instruction, which told me to take the dough, shape it into small balls of dough, and place them evenly spread apart on a baking sheet.     

My ten-year-old mind had no knowledge on how to work the seemingly complicated oven knobs, so I called my mom into the kitchen for her to handle it. Sliding the pan of delicious dough into the oven she turned knobs and set the timer for 15 minutes.

She would return later with a pan of chocolate chip cookies, to which there were many “oohs” and “aahs” from the relatives and friends. As the cookies began quickly disappearing, I realized that I had to act fast or risk not getting a single one. So I quickly and deftly snatched one from the pan and scurried into a different room.

I had thought the dough was good. But these cookies were almost unexplainable. How could something be possibly this good? The buttery sweet taste of a cookie, with just a hint of saltiness to balance it out, the chocolate chips still melting, the whole thing just dissolving on my tongue.

The cookie was gone before I knew it, and as I rushed into the kitchen for more, they were, predictably, gone.

However the taste was still in my mouth and I had a feeling that I would be looking forward to the next unexpected visit.

by MIKE MCKIBBON