In reading my life backwards, this story takes me back to a raining Sunday afternoon in our small country home in Texas. Mom always made the best oatmeal cookies. The recipe was handed down to her from Dad’s mom, my grandmother Ora Bomar. Now it was my turn to master this recipe. I believe I was in the third grade.
I gathered all the ingredients, then th needed utensils. As the stress mounted I read and re-read the recipe. Mom, retreated to the living room trusting I would call her when all the cookies were ready for the oven. I could be trusted with the family recipe, but not the use of the oven, maybe that would come next time. I was feeling pretty confident as I measured the flour, not heaping, but level, just as I was taught in 4-H. “What in heavens name are you doing, Bobbie Ann” my Mom laughingly said. With rolling pin in hand, I calmly answered, “rolling the oats, the recipe calls for rolled oats.” How dumb I felt. But as always Mom did what she did best, reassured me with her love. She said that’s okay. Oatmeal use to be called “rolled oats”. Just make a note on the recipe card, “oatmeal”.
I can’t recall how the cookies tasted, I just know I never will forget the love Mom and I shared that day.