“Orange Cookies” by Elizabeth Kolias
Today I slump myself down on my rug, back up against the sharp grooves of my makeshift half-loft in my delightfully-cramped room. I pull out a tupperware I have seen so many times, constantly in transit between producer and consumer. Like a Pavlovian dog salivating, my heart seems to skip a bit as my fingers trace along the little sticky note gently placed on the lid. In neat cursive handwriting (no one takes the time to do it anymore, but the curly cues are so satisfying to write!), it reads Orange Cookies (gluten, no dairy).
Inside, a dozen little sunny-side up yolks of freshly baked dough pop out at me. Their perfect little domes spring up from their sturdy bases where they are ever so slightly burnt from sitting on the tray in the oven. As I bite into one, the memories come flooding back. I am back in my grandmother’s old house in Vestal, New York, only four years old. The kitchen is flooded with the smell of onions and garlic wafting out of pans soaked in olive oil. There always has been something so magical about my grandmother’s cooking; some food you eat to eat, but other food you don’t want to eat because you want the flavor to just sit with you a minute so you can meditate on it. The scent of it is intoxicating like a perfume or sweet dry wine, pulling you in with the smallest whiff. Orange cookies were always a staple after a comforting, savory meal, and they always seemed to fill up that one tiny empty spot in my stomach and my soul.
Sometimes I would help knead the cookie dough and shape it into balls with the palms of my tiny hands. I always wonder where I would be now if I baked as much as I did when I was three, or four, or five, always the center of attention for cute kitchen photographs or adventures on my mother’s hip as she cooked dinner. I try to convince myself that I do not, in fact, succumb to gender stereotypes by not knowing how to cook or bake, but to tell the truth, I wouldn’t survive for a second in the wilderness. Part of me wants to give up because I know I can never cook with the love and delicacy of my grandmother. But I know that one day I still will want to get her orange cookie recipe to make something at least comparable to her simple yet delightful treats.
Back in my dorm room, I ride an analgesic high as the flavor floods my mouth and mind. The flavor of love. That is one delight I will never get tired of.
Elizabeth Kolias is a rising junior currently studying psychology. She enjoys expressing herself creatively through poetry, short-form prose, and digital art. In the future, she hopes to continue to use the arts to promote positive change.
