I made my grandma’s cookies
yesterday. My kids didn’t really
like them. And why would they?
They don’t really resemble a cookie
at all. They are far more like a
granola bar, cut into bricks and
stored in plasticware. I remember them
always in the pantry. Enough for
visitors–the grandchildren, of course.
I’m not sure we liked them much,
but they were made with chocolate,
the only sweet thing in the house
that wasn’t alive.

These two great grandchildren are
surrounded by sweet things and not
enough yogurt-based cheesecakes
and fresh-picked green vegetables.
They aren’t desperate enough to
crave granola as a treat. And yet
they know hunger. And sacrifice.
And the joy of giving gifts. Bits of
sweet big enough to cherish.