Cookie Jar

Growing up, my Great Grandma always had chocolate chip cookies in a cow shaped cookie jar. It was kept in the corner of the counter. As kids she would often make them just because she knew we were coming over. Any time you asked for one she’d get a smile on her face. “You know where they are,” she would say. For years growing up, reaching into that cookie jar would be the first thing I did after walking in the house.  

When you plan your funeral, chances are you don’t think of what food you want to be served. What meal? Snacks? Beverages? Maybe you will have it all planned out. But Great Grandma didn’t. Her kids went to the funeral home, and they gave them a catering sheet and had them pick a meal out of the options listed. It makes you wonder what food they’ll serve at your funeral. It makes you wonder if you’ll even like the food they decide to serve. Every funeral I’ve been to serves some sort of sandwich, pasta salad, chips, and desserts. Chocolate chip cookies were one of the options on the dessert table.  

One summer when my mom worked, I would spend the day at my great grandparents’ house. I ate a lot of chocolate chip cookies during that summer. I also helped Great Grandma bake them. I’d stand in the kitchen on a dining table chair and watch her make the dough. I’d help her pour ingredients into the bowl and mix them together. I’d watch as she rolled the dough into balls and placed them on the cooking sheet. She’d always let me eat the extra dough and she’d always lick the spoon. At the time I didn’t realize how much I’d look back on that summer and appreciate the memories made in that kitchen. 

My great grandma wouldn’t have said no chocolate chip cookies at her funeral. I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded. She loved to bake them and eat them. But they weren’t her chocolate chip cookies there. They were store bought and too cakey to be hers. Hers were thin, crispy. She didn’t use expensive chocolate chips to make them better. She used Crisco. She was old-fashioned. She didn’t care to change it up or make them fancy. They were the same every time you reached in that cow jar to grab one.  

Until they weren’t. Until that jar was always empty. Until Great Grandma was put in the nursing home. Until her cookies weren’t there anymore. No more cookies. There’s no memory of the last time I tasted one of her cookies. There is no recalling of the last time my child like hand reached in that jar. No recollection of the final time I saw that cow shaped cookie jar with the blue bandana around its neck. No memory of the last time I saw her. Because you never realize it’s the last time until the last time passes.  

I lied; I remember the last time I saw her. The last time I saw my Great Grandma was when I walked in that small church and saw her lying in her casket. Everyone cried, everyone hugged, everyone mourned. The service concluded, we drove to the graveyard, and she was buried. Then came the food. That’s where I saw those chocolate chip cookies sitting on the table. I took one bite and knew they weren’t hers.