Page 24 - Sandy Jackman Pantai Hotel

Oatmeal Cookies

By Diana Vahedi
Bing! The oven timer alerted
me that my cookies were
finally done. As I opened the
oven door, I was greeted by
a blast of hot air, and then
the wonderful smell and
sight of each mouth- water-
ing oatmeal cookie carefully
lined up in neat little rows on
the cookie sheets.
I held one in my hand and
slowly brought it to my lips.
It was warm, soft and gooey,
just the way I liked it. I took
one bite and the morsel
immediately melted on my
tongue. The sweet fragrant
smell of oatmeal, raisins and
brown sugar enveloped me.
As the smell wafted through
the air, I was transported
back to my Great Aunt Em-
ily’s house where she used
to cook Lebanese food and
oatmeal cookies for me,
even when she was battling
cancer.
24 My Great Aunt Emily lived
in an impeccably kept green show. We had the same conversation every night for six years. I
and white bungalow on a steep hill in West Roxbury, a neighbor- still remember her phone number - almost thirty years later.
hood of Boston. She was a short, stout woman in her mid-sixties,
with a round, rosy face lightly etched with wrinkles, and deep set The cancer returned and spread throughout her body five years
dark eyes and white hair she kept pulled back into a bun with later. In the spring of 1982, my mother began taking Aunt Emily
what seemed like hundreds of bobby pins. She always wore dark to weekly chemotherapy sessions. Despite the nausea, pain and
dresses which contrasted sharply with her ivory skin. She had lived weakness, she still managed to cook Lebanese food. She found
in that house for most of her life with her older brother and sister. out that I loved oatmeal cookies, something she hadn’t made that
Her brother, my Great Uncle Mitch, died before I was born. Em- often and every time I went to visit her, she always had a small
ily’s older sister, Alice, was the real cook in the family and died plastic bag filled with oat meal cookies secured with a yellow wire
unexpectedly in 1978 when I was only eight years old. None of the wrap just for me. “Now don’t eat those all at once!” she’d say with
siblings ever married or had children; we were Alice’s and Emily’s a mischievous grin.
children.
The insidious disease took its toll on her physically. Her round,
My brother, two sisters and I visited Emily almost every weekend. doughy face became thin, jagged and more haggard. Her deep set
We were always greeted with a big hug and a huge Lebanese eyes deeper and ghostly, her wrinkles more furrowed and pro-
meal. We’d sit around the antique dining room table and listen to nounced, and her once ivory skin turned sallow and yellowish. I
the stories about Lebanon, the land of milk and honey -the Paris of looked forward to visiting her because I knew she’d have a bag of
the Middle East. We enjoyed exotic foods with names I could barely fresh homemade cookies for me. Those cookies were more than
pronounce like loobie and rooz (green beans with rice in a fragrant just a sweet, delicious treat. To me, the most important ingredients
tomato sauce), batanjan (stuffed eggplant), and our favorite kibbeh were the unconditional love and care my aunt put into making them.
nyeh (raw lamb mixed with bulgur wheat and herbs). Although No matter how sick or weak she was, there was always a bag of
Emily was a dour person who didn’t smile often, she had a way of her oatmeal cookies waiting for me - only me.
making us feel loved and wanted. She was also the strongest and
bravest person I have ever known. The time came when my aunt succumbed to her illness. Her battle
Emily was diagnosed with breast cancer in the fall of 1976 at the was over. She died on a cold, rainy New England fall day in Sep-
age of 66. She had a mastectomy and chose to wear a prosthesis. tember, 1982. I was twelve years old. The rain fell in unison with
I was only six years old; too young to understand what was going my tears. After the funeral, my dad, brother, sisters and I went back
on, and too young to visit her in the hospital. to her house to begin cleaning and organizing my aunt’s belong-
ings. As I walked into the kitchen, there, in the middle of the table,
The doctors gave Emily only one year to live after her surgery. She was a small plastic bag tied with a yellow wire wrap full of oatmeal
lived six. She never complained about her pain or felt sorry for cookies. Tears filled my eyes as I heard aunt Emily’s voice inside
herself. Every night I called her on the phone to make sure she my head say, “Now don’t eat all of those at once!”
was ok. She always asked me if I had watched the Lawrence Welk