Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Food isn’t something we normally discuss here, but we’ve been on a tear recently, and rather than stare blankly at Word for 20 to 30 minutes, scrabbling for something remotely interesting that happened in the past five days, I figured, “Fuck it. Let’s just ride the momentum to the ground.” I submit to you, then, cookies.

I’m not just talking about any cookies. I have a very specific kind in mind: chocolate chip cookies from Chicago, Purple Line, baked right under the Foster L stop. Every year, I make it a point to buy a few dozen from the proprietor, and it’s a tradition driven by nostalgia, then verified by cold, empirical deliciousness. The first time I had these cookies was in college. They were sold in the student union, individually wrapped and stamped with a strange rhino.

But then the cookies disappeared one day, which prompted some sleuthing. Honestly, it was probably the only substantive research I conducted during my undergraduate tenure. And when I finally found the bakery, I may as well have found the Seven Cities of Gold. I loved the ambiance. Entrance secreted away on the side of a building, no real storefront, drawings all over the kitchen walls, and the credit card reader buried under papers on a desk in the back office.

My fondest memory, though, was when the owner made a house call. It was my first Bible study, and I wanted to do it up right by plying everybody with earthly riches in the form of baked goods. I called the bakery and she picked up. Mentioned she was headed home anyway, so swinging by would be a no-brainer. It was a chilly night. I remember dashing down the dorm stairs to the lakeside entrance and there she was, still in bakery attire, with a bag full of cookies. It was a different era, a bygone time when I actually had the wherewithal to lead Bible study. Only worried about the curriculum, with no thought for the vitae part. World economies weren’t constantly on the brink of something, every other week. And cookie flavor, above all else, would be my most pressing decision for the evening.