cookies - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Cookies cover the counter like the casual results of a master class. There are pralines, rich toffee and ginger. There are oatmeal, rum raisin and almond cherry. Together they cause the best kind of sensory overload, a form of choice paralysis. Willow inhales, her lips creeping upward before turning to put on a pot of coffee. There can be no savouring cookies without her bitter brew.
Cookies are probably the only safe thing to eat here. As the temperatures soar the cook keeps churning out food that could become poison in the heat. So instead of a listeria sandwich or a salmonella salad, I reach for the oatmeal chocolate chip - much to the disapproval of the matron. A sugar high is one thing, a trip to the emergency room some twenty miles away is quite another; I'll let her scowl and reach for another. One bite tells me cook has a thing for salt, either that or her tastebuds are as defective as the air conditioning. They have the slightly dry texture of cookies baked a few days ago, slightly stale under the heavy vanilla flavouring.
Cookies from scratch, that's Eve's plan. Instead of all our expensive hobbies we are to be bakers, cooks, future master chefs. Of course she has bought the finest aprons and Gordon Ramsey everything, as if his name is going to instil in us his culinary genius. Frankly, I'd settle for something not shamefully bad and mildly edible. It's hard to fault her enthusiasm right now, I just hope it propels her all the way to the washing up and cleaning the kitchen stage. When she unfurls the apron and hands it to me I can see she's had our names embroidered on the top. After a quick tongue bite I ask to see the recipe...
Cookies danced around Petal's head like they were puppets on strings. She could no more focus on her assignment than conjure a magic a pixie to do it for her. Just thinking of them made her fingers tingle and her breathing deeper, as if she was already inhaling the fragrance of the bakery. It was a five minute walk for a cookie, ten if you counted the round trip (which Petal never did). Within a minute her jacket was being warmed, her pen was cold and her feet were treading the cracked sidewalk. The cookies were calling.
Blossom slid the cookie over like she'd rather it was poison, her eyes fixed on his face. Parker didn't know what to do, dropping his gaze to the plate. It was the type she always baked and without tasting it he knew it was perfect. Yet if he tried even a bite he thought he'd choke, and in a way that's what he was doing anyway - choking on memories, on the sight of her face and on the air he needed to breathe.
Other kid's mom's made cookies from white flour, butter and sugar. They even put in chocolate chips. My mom saw every time I ate as an opportunity to 'fool' me into eating more ground flax seed and pureed sweet potato. The flour was multi-grain, the fat was kept to a minimum and always non-transfat margarine or olive oil and the little sugar she added was usually honey. She crammed in all kinds of nuts and seeds too, so in the end the cookie looked something like bear poop. I scored something of a victory when I was seven and convinced her to start adding raisins, although it increase the 'bear poop' look of them the flavour was greatly improved.
Rose looked down at the cookies, fighting off the expression she wanted to pull and replacing it with something less damaging to her brother's ego. They were burnt on the bottom, that she could tell by the blackened edges. But River had already read her. Withdrawing the plate he let them slide into the trash, returning to the kitchen without a word. "Hey, what happened to the boy who threw tantrums when things went wrong?"
"I killed him. He was a whiner. I'm a winner. That's the difference." With that River cleaned down the kitchen and began another batch.