Burnt Cookies

Mother was a force of nature. She was a whirlwind of energy. She was everyone’s friend and confessor. Everyone loved “Mrs. Lew.” Which was interesting because it was my father, “Mr. Lew,” who was gentle and accepting, with a marvelous sense of humor and a generosity of spirit. Dad was the same man at the breakfast table alone with a cup of coffee, toast, and the Des Moines Register, as he was behind the meat counter in the store, at church, or in his favorite chair at night. What you saw was what you got.

In the store, Mrs. Lew smiled a lot. She was willing to do anything for a customer, but after the person left, her attitude might be completely different.

Mother was different with each of her children. There was never any doubt that she loved us, but she could becontrolling and opinionated. She was rigid, even though the world thought she was flexible. Looks were important to her, and other people’s opinions. She was scandalized when I wanted to grow a beard before my college graduation.

She baked cookies in the morning to sell in the store. Sometimes she’d be waiting on a customer and wouldn’t get them out of the oven in time, and they’d be a little burnt. She couldn’t sell those. Those were mine. To this day I love cookies that are a little burnt. Sometimes Pamela lets a few burn just for me. They remind me of Mother.