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Show He wrestled cookies by himself ihec grassroots j i , Z ' Copyright 1985 Becky Grass Johnson I grew up in a family of six girls. Having no brothers, I didn't know much about boys except that they usually had dirty fingernails and they liked gooey things with more than four legs. Boys seemed only to be good for making the Sunday School teacher cry and for collecting strange odds and ends that nobody else wanted. Then I grew older and boys started looking a little differently. I never understood the transformation. tran-sformation. All I know is that the snotty neighbor boy who used to throw girls in the ditch after Primary, suddenly became a hunk who dragged Main in a sleek, red Firebird. The day came when I found my Prince Charming, and after riding off into the sunset in his Volkswagon, we started a family of our own. Lo and behold, our first- r born was a son. Hubby was on cloud nine. I was estatic beyond relief. But deep in my heart, I wasn't sure I knew anything about raising a boy. He survived the first years in spite of me and seemed to naturally My son is working on his Bear Badge now, and so far we haven't tracked a single buffalo. (I guess we get to the good stuff later.) One of our biggest adventures together was the day he had to fulfill a cooking requirement. That's right. This nine-year-old boy actually had to bake oatmeal cookies! I knew that short of tying myself up in the closet, I'd be hovering over him like a mother hen, and most likely I'd end up making them. I mustered all the self-control I had and swore not to step foot into the kitchen. Before I banished myself, I left the following tips: Never lick the beaters while they are still going. Don't cook the oatmeal before you add it to the cookies. When the recipe calls for "soda," we're not talking Pepsi Free. The baker is , responsible to clean all batter-flips off the wallpaper and ceiling. Then I turned him loose. I nervously listened in the next room to the whir of the beaters and the clanging of cookie sheets. Suddenly I became aware of an odor coming from the kitchen which defies description. )W: I had forgotten to remind my senjrou that one should always check Ihtjf k oven before turning it on. (We lost ajie good set of Tinker Toys that waylijiis The extra pieces of French toast ! A from breakfast were now charihui coaled hockey pucks. This washier blessing in disguise because nowwcom know that our smoke alarm works! (jegi After the air cleared, anothereqi aroma began to fill the house. IiRef was the promising smell thisele something wonderful was baking to r My boy, whose face and shirt wen M covered with flour, turned out sowmer of the best oatmeal cookies IY.be ever tasted. I'll never know if itwime; the dirty fingernails or some othtthis secret ingredient. He wouldn't tell Bier He said the hard part of makir,;like cookies wasn't picking out the Ik pieces of eggshell, or twisting k " spatula from the beaters, but nlkwi0 fighting off his little sisters with iP wooden spoon in a race to lick 1111 bowl. After all, a little spoon ti spoon combat is good preparation for later... when we wrestle tk' timber wolf. by BECKI GRASS JOHNSON pick up on the dirty fingernails and "tormenting the girls" routine. I looked forward to the big day when he would start scouting. I ! could hardly wait to help him earn merit badges. We'd skin a mountain lion together. We'd learn to track buffalo. I'd teach him to identify every weed in the garden. I'd be the best friend a cub scout could hope for. |