“Did you know a cookie could change the world?” read the email in my inbox.
Um, duh. If cookie dough can mend a broken heart, then I have no doubt that a cookie can change the world-and that certainly goes double when the cookie in question is homemade.
The email in question came from, MoveOn.org, that bastion of political sanity in a world that seems to be nothing if not utterly off its rocker, and the gist was this: Dubbed “Hungry for Change,” the grassroots group was organizing a nationwide bake sale to raise money for Obama’s presidential campaign. While I’ve only recently begun healing from the heartbreak of the past two elections (cookie dough helped), when I read that email, I thought, “Wow, so many things to love!” And that was before I saw the spread.
So, that Sunday, in near 100-degree heat, I biked down to the water, on the hunt for liberal-minded peeps, rice krispie treats, and hope in the form of a bounty of other nutritionally void goodies blessedly oblivious to the memo that carbs are not our friends. I spotted the booth near the base of the pier, aptly situated with the Veterans for Peace memorial in the background, parked my bike, and became promptly-and completely-engrossed in ogling the goodies. Eventually, I remembered who I was and what I was there for, and got to chatting with Deborah Ferguson and her pal Carole McCarley, out from Minnesota, manning the proverbial cookie jar. Ferguson had been up late baking the night before-a feat that, if there’s any justice at all, should qualify her for sainthood, as the previous night’s temps made the mere thought of turning on the stove an exercise in masochism.
A steady flow of volunteers-and volunteer bakers-arrived, each bearing some delicious-looking, drool-inspiring treat of their own creation-except, that is, for Alice Sanov, who showed up with a beautiful coffee cake that she insisted she couldn’t be photographed with, unless I noted that it was not her, but her husband, Sheldon, who’d done the baking. And may I be the first to congratulate Sheldon on his skills?
When I was finally ready to put away the camera and get down to shopping, I realized McCarley’d beaten me to the punch: She presented me with an enormous sampler platter, wrapped up and ready to go. I tried to refuse (okay, that’s a lie), and made my way back home, goodies precariously placed in my backpack. It wasn’t more than five minutes later, when I was safely home, that I learned tragedy had struck: I opened my backpack to discover the treats had melted into one gigantic, doughy, frostingy, chocolate-chippy ball of goo.
My heart was broken, and I was still hungry for change. Not frosting,
I reminded myself, change.
Awwww, hell :