I-I he cookies sat on my best
friend's kitchen shelf, next
to notebooks, mail, pencils
and paper. They came eight
to a package.
Round, donut-shaped graham
cracker cookies, they were frosted
with shiny, hard-glazed chocolate.
In between the brittle chocolate
frosting and the crumbly graham
cracker cake were four mounds of
spongy, white marshmallow. The
marshmallow gave the cookie tops a
Sometimes, after school or on a
Saturday afternoon, I'd take the
secret short cut through my bac-
kyard, across the road, down the
gravel side street and through the
two yards to Betsey's.
Pressing against the screen
door, I could see the cookies lying
undisturbed on the kitchen shelf.
If we were lucky, Betsey's mom
would let us each have one cookie.
There were several ways to eat
them. You could separate the layers,
peel off the spongy marshmallow,
uncover the graham cracker base
and chip off the flaky chocolate
cover. This is how Betsey ate hers.
I always ate mine whole, tasting
the three layers in every bite. Even
though I ate slowly, I would always
finish before Betsey. She ate hers
patiently and absent-mindedly, dis-
membering the cookie, eating each
brightly, "How are you? Call me,
We never called. She seemed
chilly and aloof. I probably looked
Years later, - we bumped into
each other at a children's clothing
store. I had just moved back to the
city after a 12-year absence. Seeing
her, all my warm feelings surfaced. I
felt a catch in my throat. She
seemed receptive and sincere.
BY ELLYCE FIELD
Special to The Jewish. News
We compared notes. She lived
several miles from me. Our children
were close in age.
"Let's get together. Come over
for lunch. I'll call you and we'll set a
for three years. We shared Cokes date," I said emphatically.
part until she had saved the best for
I raced around the morning of
and combs, slept next to each other
last. I always promised myself I
visit, straightening the house,
would use her method next time.
projects together. I used to picture us making a salad, setting the table,
My family never bought this
together, solving mysteries. She was putting fresh flowers in a vase.
special cookie. Even though I vividly
She called to confirm our visit.
blond-haired Trixie Belden. I was
described the cookie and its package
be by around 1:00. Don't bother
for my mother, she always told me
lunch. I can only stay a short
We passed each other notes in
she couldn't find it. Betsey's family
never seemed to run out. A fresh
She breezed in at 1:30, wearing
"He's looking at you." "Don't you
package was always on the shelf.
a red silk blouse over white linen
think so-and-so looks cute?" "I hate
I thought about those cookies
slacks. Her red nails still looked wet.
so-and-so. She's not my friend any-
one winter afternoon while I was
I still hand't lost my baby
finishing a bag of chocolate chip
weight and was wearing blue seer-
When we entered high school,
cookies my oldest son had cajoled me
sucker pants whose right pocket rib-
our friendship waned. We found our-
into buying for his school lunches.
bing had been rubbed down by a con-
Outside my kitchen window, the
stant diaper bag leaning against my
snow looked thick and creamy, al-
side. My comfortable white t-shirt
reasons, we grew apart.
most bouncy, like melted marshmal-
low with a thin crust of ice cover.
Continued on next page
Betsey and I were best friends
Eating cookies and living
lives . . . there are many
ways to go.
c a a
* A .1 • go
r, a 1.