February 9, 2020
My daughter Julie and I had the custom of making Valentines cookies: plain heart-shaped cookies, decorated with pink icing and red-hot heart candies. One year, when she was a university student and living with friends, she came over to our house so we could make these for gifts.
The evening well, with plenty of sampling on our part. We arranged and wrapped them on paper plates, and loaded them into my car for delivery to her friends.
Thick snow made driving a challenge. When we arrived at her house, it became clear that we were missing a large plate of the cookies. One of us had set it on the car roof as we loaded up the other plates.
“It must have fallen off when we drove away.” I said. “I’ll drive back to get it.”
When I arrived at the street in front of our house, at the spot where I would have accelerated, there lay the plate of cookies. Right side up. Lodged in a snowy car rut. Flattened by the weight of a passing car. Or mine.
I delivered them to Julie and her hungry housemates. Lots of heart-bonding munching and laughter. The best kind of Valentines fun.
