to my Grandma, who will always be my favorite Valentine
By: Regan Puckett
Grandma’s hands are stronger than any rolling pin, pressing the pale dough into a thin layer atop the flour-sprinkled counter. My fingers are too small to make a difference, but she lets me pretend, lets me stand atop a dinner chair to reach it, hovering behind, always ready to catch me if I fall. I never do. We press the plastic cookie cutters into our work, carving sugared dough into perfect hearts, and let them bake for ten minutes. At seven years old, ten minutes feels endless. We pass the time with stories, like how she used to work in an old-fashioned pharmacy, where they served ice cream sundaes in ornate glass bowls. Or how her grandma taught her to bake, and now, she’s teaching me.
Decorating the cookies is my favorite part. We coat their golden tops with a layer of pink frosting and an abundance of red sprinkles, and eat them with sticky fingers, with warm hearts. She says, This is what love tastes like, Valentine, breaks off half her cookie, fits it into my palm. Sweet buttercream frosting, a sprinkle of nutmeg in the dough, the love only a Grandma can give – a perfect Valentine’s Day cookie. This is what love tastes like.