Sunrise, Cookies, and the Scent of Home

The scent of wine cookies danced through the hallway at dawn. Fresh from the oven, they sat cooling on a rack, just out of reach. It was 6 am, and I was already in running clothes, excited to revisit my childhood neighborhood while also preparing my body for the inevitable feast. Visits home always ended with a few extra pounds.

My mother, having finished preparing breakfast, was already strategizing lunch, her hands kneading the dough for lasagna. The kitchen was compact, yet I marveled at how much she orchestrated in that tiny space.

She playfully chided me when I arrived with sneakers and shorts. A part of her seemed to consider it a waste of my precious visit. Running, in her eyes, meant neglecting the true purpose – days dedicated to indulging in her culinary creations. My weight gain was proof of her love, she believed, every meal a testament to her affection.

She urged me to sit, have an espresso, and dunk a cookie the way it should be done. All she wanted was to love her child in the only language she truly understood. The run would have to wait. There was a deeper need to fulfill, a love story to be savored, bite by bite, in the warmth of her kitchen.