They came in and sat at the table beside me in the restaurant. A big man, bigger than me and a child, probably 6 or 8 years old, his grandson. I had never seen them before. I doubt I will see them again.
Their conversation turned to cookies and specifically to cookies made during the holiday season.
The man explained how the child’s grandmother made cookies for Christmas using a cookie press. He described the process of creating the dough, adding food color, putting dough in the press, and squeezing it.
As I listened, the years fell away and the miles disappeared, and I stood once more in the kitchen of a house where I was raised. I could feel the warmth of the oven and smell the sugar and butter in the air.
I watched as my mother carefully pressed out cookie after cookie, changing the dough and changing the tip. The trays went into the oven. And the cookies came out and were placed on towels where some were decorated with sugar or rainbow sprinkles. The taste played anew on my tongue.
When I headed into the night, I said to the man, “My mother made those too. Thank you for the memory.”
And I smiled.
See you along the Trail.