But when a grandson with a smile that turns stone into molten lava gets hurt, what else can a far-away grandmother (known in his world as Grammy Pammy) do?
So yes, I sneak down to the dark corner of my basement, where I hide the thick ancient texts on “cooking magic” and “baking love,” the texts that my family know nothing about.
I race to the store and buy the everyday ingredients of butter and eggs (organic, of course, from a cage-free farm), sugar and vanilla, oats and semi-sweet chips.
I light a softly scented Frasier fir candle and breathe in the aroma of Mother Nature intensified.
At five, he thinks he can ski with abandon. The ski instructors call him “Turbo,” which spurs him on to race even faster down the feet-thick mounds of Sierra mountain snow.
But his little legs aren’t as strong as his will, and he tumbles hard. His tibia snaps.
And then I read page 744, Chapter 52, on baking love.
I hardly feel my fingers as they measure the flour, beat the sugar concoction, pour the chips and oatmeal into the bowl, then transfer the entire mix into a baking pan and slide it into the hot oven.
The aroma of the sweet bars fills the house, and my guy stumbles down from his home office, sniffing wildly, embracing me with abandon in hopes for a bite.
“Not for you!” I say, softly pushing him away.
A secret love ingredient known only to grandmothers.
An hour later, quietly and reverently, I cut the bars into squares and begin to pack them in a special mailing bag. Not quietly enough. My guy sneaks in, distracts me, and reaches for a bar.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” he moans ecstatically. “These are the best you’ve ever baked. What did you do?”
I take a bite. Y E S! The special recipe worked! I can feel the love pour within my organs and my brain, the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet.
With the patience of a wife, I don’t answer my guy’s question as I shush him out of the kitchen. My spell cannot be interrupted! The delicacies are wrapped and given the last treatment suggested in the magical cookbook.
Then, I mail them, with special instructions to the postal clerk, who peers at me with wonder, but complies with my request.
Baked Love in a Box, due to arrive in two days.