Oatmeal Cookies with Lynne Willstein

The drive to Lynne Willstein’s house is a winding road through the trees of the upper Rattlesnake. It is finally spring and I am enjoying the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. The drive takes away all my worries. For the next hours I spend with Lynne I almost completely forget that I am a senior and have to finish this project -within a month- in order to graduate.

Lynne is the most generous person I know. She is generous with her time, her managing talents, her energy, and her stories. She was one of the first people I thought of to cook with for my project.

It’s Sunday and I arrive at the Willstein home just in time for dinner. Lynne’s children Ben and Sara are returning from paintball birthday parties and soccer tournaments while her oldest is off to a hockey game. This is a busy family. There is always one kid coming and another needing a ride but Lynne seems to be the ultimate soccer mom, juggling getting dinner in the oven and listening to the highlights of the soccer match. These kids are shocked that their mom is baking and can’t wait to try the cookies. Lynne says she isn’t a baker, “and my kids know this.” I smile remembering when I thought cookies were made out of the plastic tub in the store, because that is how I always saw my Grandma do it. While we set up, Lynne even has trouble finding her mixer and beaters, remarking how I’m probably going to write this in my story. (Well, it helps the story along and fits in with her whole “I don’t bake” theme.)

On this particular day we are making oatmeal cookies - homemade. I am thankful when I look at the recipe and find that there isn’t a trace of raisins in the bunch. As we get things ready Ben is telling his mom about the birthday party and she stops what she is doing to listen to her youngest recall how he almost won the game. She pulls the pizza out of the oven as she hears the account of the weekend’s soccer tournament from Sara. Being a past bartender she is a great listener and an even better storyteller. I get the full benefit of this as we cream the butter and sugar and crack open a fresh bottle of pure vanilla.

Growing up Lynne was in athletics; she never cooked or baked but after leaving the sorority house in college she suddenly found herself in need of cooking skills. She grew up in the age of convenience where mothers were thrilled to call Swanson dinners a meal or cake out of the box “gourmet”. “My mom was an academic. Sure she cooked but it was box cakes,” Lynne says as we measure out the dry ingredients.

Throughout the process we mostly talk about the future. My future, which seems to be the hot topic in every conversation I partake in. However, talking about the possibilities with Lynne is different than with others. I feel more comfortable and am enjoying listening to her stories from college. We are hand mixing in the flour. Doing it the old fashioned way. “No cheating with a mixer” says Lynne. Rather than look down on my “undecided” future she encourages me to go into what I am passionate about, but she doesn’t hide her comment about making a plan so I will have an income. I have heard all this before, but for some reason at this house, adding flour into the mixing bowl, it’s different. There is something about cookies that brings out the best in people and situations.

As the stirring gets tough I hand off the wooden spoon to Lynne and start adding the quick-cooking oats. Lynne tells me about her parents who have both passed on now. “My Dad crafted the things he said, he put thought into his words.” I nod when she says this, it reminds me of my grandfather. “My mom,” she says with an on-the-other-hand tone, “she was point blank with her words.” Lynne has a wonderful family and is an incredible mother. She sent an e-mail to her sister telling her that she was going to cook their mother’s cookies with me. Her sister’s reply: leave some dough to bake. I laugh at this response, a true sister’s comment.

We have finished stirring in the oats and I ask if I can try some of the dough. It is good. But what is better is that I am comfortable enough in this house to lick my fingers and steal extra dough. We form the dough into rectangle logs and put them in the refrigerator. Then stand around chatting more about the cookies and all the memories attached to the recipe.

She remembers all her brothers and sisters getting really excited when their mom would bake these oatmeal cookies. “They don’t have cinnamon or raisins in them, which is what I like about them,” says Lynne. She remembers digging into the dough, a cherished childhood memory. Looking back she knows that her mom wasn’t the average housewife. She was a hard worker and encouraged her girls to wear pants. “She wasn’t normal.” But when she made cookies Lynne felt like she fit in more with all the other kids in the neighborhood.

Cookies are the world’s greatest equalizer. They are a sparkle in Santa’s eye, a warm hug from a friend. Cookies have the ability to transform time, make memories last forever, end a fight, start a friendship. Here, in the beginning of spring, these oatmeal cookies have given me a new outlook on life, and the future from my standpoint.

As I drive home I roll my window down and take in the smells of budding spring. I can still taste the cookie dough, a taste of sweet simplicity, compassion, and home.

Oatmeal Cookies

1 cup Shortening (we used 3/4 margarine, 1/4 butter)

1 cup white sugar

1 cup brown sugar

2 well-beaten eggs

1 3/4 cups sifted flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1 tsp vanilla

3 1/4 cups quick-cooking oats

Cream shortening. Add sugar gradually. Add eggs and beat. Add flour, soda and salt - hand mixing. Add vanilla. Add oatmeal, still stirring by hand. Divide dough into two parts. On wax paper form into a log-type roll. Chill in refrigerator. (preferably overnight) Slice and bake at 350 degrees for 12 to 18 minutes. Enjoy with a good friend.