Grace Still “A Spoonful of Sugar with a Hint of Spice”

A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR WITH A HINT OF SPICE ____________________________________________________________ by Grace Still, Grade 12

I’d just turned thirteen and for what I lacked in mannerisms, I made up for in misbehaviour. Each Sunday, my parents would send me to Grandma’s house for a visit. They’d leave me there at 10:00 and pick me up at 4:00, hoping, somehow, I’d gain even a teaspoon of her wisdom. It was a grey Sunday, reflecting my happiness of having to get out of bed before 11:00 and ditch my clique for someone six times my age. The car ride there was filled with silence. This was supposedly due to my “attitude” reflected in my clothing choices. Somehow, in my parents’ minds, the invention of Doc Martens and dark clothes catalyzed teenage rebellion and angst: the ultimate upgrade to an outcast’s outward appearance. When I wasn’t at Grandma’s I was a reckless rebel, attempting to gain an ounce of attention from anyone or anything. Looking back, I never had any true friends. I had a clique who also dyed their hair unnatural colours, wore dark clothing and had perfectly worn-in platform shoes. My new Doc Martens were, like me, outsiders in the rebel realm. I wore those boots every day, yet I could get never wear them in. And for good reason. I’d been ditching classes, sneaking out of the house, and began talking back to my teachers. A’s went to B’s and B’s to C’s, then letters home. After months of moulding myself into an off-brand “cool-girl,” I was asked to do something that pushed my moral compass. “Go rob the register at Kenny’s Convenience,” the leader of my clique demanded. “I bet you won’t do it,” shouted another. “She’s too scared about what Mommy and Daddy are gonna do!” Each comment flooded my outcast fears, pushing me further from the shore of innocence. I was drowning, suffocating from solitude. I knew that I, like those boots, would never wear in. Every day, I was shedding my skin as I crammed my feet into those leather layers of lost identity. I finally felt exposed, empty and unvalidated—there was nothing left to conceal. I ran home, rushing through the door, tearing off those pretentious platform boots, my feet never feeling so free. Painfully, I still squeezed into those boots for days afterwards, petrified of portraying myself without them. Ultimately, it took a surplus of Sundays at Grandma’s—and many, many band-aids and bruises on my heels—to accept my authenticity. Weeks later, it was my first of many Sunday visits to Grandma’s. It felt like an eternity before we turned onto Rose Street, a glimpse into a cinematic masterpiece in old-school Hollywood. Polished, put-together, white-picket fence houses. Flowers blooming. Plastic green grass cut and watered twenty hours a day. Even if it was a gloomy, upstate New York kind of day, the thought of “if only my life was this picture-perfect” crossed my mind each time I drove by.

Mom turned around in the car. “Now, Rosalie, be good to Grandma today, she’s looking forward to seeing you,” she said, wide-eyed. It was the first and last thing she said to me since leaving home. I got out, rolled my eyes and responded with my most common reply: The “I-hate-you” look. Honestly, my thirteen-year-old self was a rule-bending rebel. I emphasize rule-bending rather than breaking. I only tip-toed around the rules when I slipped on those

A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR WITH A HINT OF SPICE ____________________________________________________________ by Grace Still, Grade 12

Docs, doubling as my deviant disguise. Grandma’s front door was twice my height, a dark chestnut brown, with gold-plated door handles and details. I rang the doorbell and her white Yorkie, Callie, barked straight away. “I’m coming, I’m coming, Rosie!” shouted Grandma. No matter how much anger I threw at my parents, the sound of Grandma’s voice always painted a smile on my face. She unlocked the door, extending her embrace as the smell of vanilla, spices and her strong Chanel perfume greeted me. Grandma lived alone, so her house was pretty classy. There was never any dirt, clutter or chaos. More often than not, something was baking in the oven. On my birthday, she made me a vanilla birthday cake. Christmas, peppermint brownies. Thanksgiving, the best pumpkin pie I’ve ever tasted. And that day’s special: chocolate chip cookies with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Truly, at the age of thirteen, Grandma was the only person who understood me. It’s almost as if she knew. She knew that my disguise of backtalk and black clothing was just a cover-up for my true self.

Grandma’s two most notable traits was her ability to empathize without explanation and, of course, her capabilities in the kitchen. I would come here and Grandma would just get me. She knew that I hated who I was trying to be. That day, she began to remind me that “life experiences make up our existence,” while pouring some flour into a red ceramic bowl. I sat on the pink corduroy couch and listened while she added in a teaspoon of baking powder, which, like flour, is needed for the cookie to expand.

“A negative encounter often creates a positive outcome,” Grandma explained. I thought she was referring to the acidic reaction in baking powder. Only now do I recognize that my newfound reputation as a rebel reject was the reasoning for who I later became. Next, her favourite part of the recipe was the sugar. “Sweetness is vital, but make sure you enjoy it in moderation, or you’ll never appreciate the rest of the cookie,” she said. I smiled, wondering why my life couldn’t be filled with more sweetness? “A little goes a long way,” Grandma replied, sensing my question. “If you eat too much, it may have negative side effects, but enjoy it while you can.” I sat quietly, watching her combine everything together, knowing that each ingredient was, in fact, a recipe for the perfect cookie. For the perfect life. Of course, we never forgot about the chocolate chips. They were the perfect addition, but Grandma always ensured quality over quantity. “Pick your chocolate of choice, and don’t add too many! Otherwise, the dough may fall apart,” she’d say. I wish I would’ve been more choosy with my chocolate when I was younger. If I were to bake a batch of cookies when I was thirteen, they would’ve crumbled apart. Finally, you’d be surprised what a little bit of spice can add to your cookie. “Sprinkle the desired amount on top. Trust me, it makes the cookie all the more original,” she exclaimed. Truly, adding spice was unique. It added something that no other cookies had. That’s what

A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR WITH A HINT OF SPICE ____________________________________________________________ by Grace Still, Grade 12

made them daringly distinct. Coming here on that Sunday—and for each Sunday after—was an escape. The clash between my wild child cover-up and her gold-plated life of glamour made our visits all the more captivating. All it took were several visits before I finally began to admire Grandma’s stories and cinnamon-sprinkled cookies. She saw me for more than the girl with pink hair and dark clothes. Rather, she saw me for who I am today: the blonde bookworm, fueled with a passion to follow those recipes she taught me. Those cookies were delicious, but they also provided me with the fundamentals I’d need to become my true self. This recipe, in particular, was one of her best. I still keep the aging sticky note stained with ink pinned on my fridge. As the years passed I enjoyed the cookie recipe more and more. It’s the one I most often share with my kids, guests and neighbours. Some days, when I’m feeling particularly down, I pull out that crumpled piece of comfort, and it takes me back to Sundays at Grandma’s. Possibly it was her wisdom that challenged me to change, or maybe it was those cookies that kept me coming back for more. Of course, I didn’t turn out perfect. But with time, age and experience, my hair turned back to blonde as Grandma’s became a smokey silver. I began wearing all shades of the rainbow. And I ditched the Docs for shoes that wouldn’t make my feet blister.