Gingersnaps
Gingersnaps 1953 The dough must chill before it can be rolled, a wearisome wait for a child paid off with a cookie-cutter galaxy of stars, crescents, full moons. At hand when I stayed overnight, my favorite taste of my grandma though she didn’t cook them— didn’t cook at all. Delia, dressed in a starched uniform and immaculate apron hair white as my grandma’s, hunched from the curve in her spine stood on a stepstool to roll out the dough Just So. Too thick, chewy. Too thin, burnt edges. Just so. The scent of their baking, a child’s wide-eyed waiting— but they had to cool. Finally, that first bite Spicy, crunchy, a hint of home.