Mickey Pierce Silverstein

Everyone that my grandmother loved adored her cookies. It was one recipe which never changed. Possibly the most delectable, melt-in-your- mouth small, round butter cookies with a gentle sprinkling of powdered sugar on top ever. I recently sent a small box of them to my cousin in California among a couple of important items. There was no explanation included. In his thank you for the box, he said, “And thanks a lot for Grandma’s cookies!” She died in 1988. They’re immortal.

All this just to illustrate the emotions, the dynamic, of the following story.

Although I came home from Boston for Passover in April, 1978, it was cancelled. My Grandma Dorothy was rushed to Saint Joseph’s Hospital bleeding internally a few days prior. I was asked to wear her wedding band while she was in the hospital “for good luck.”

At the end of my week in Chicago, she wasn’t stable, and so I dreaded having to leave. Yet I knew I had to return to grad school. I was the only family member who had to go. It was clear, though unspoken, that no one thought she’d survive.

Standing at her bedside, I knew that she wasn’t comatose, but wasn’t able to speak. Everyone left me alone with her so that I could say my “goodbyes,” again unspoken, but crystal clear.

Holding her hand, I simply asked her to please send me some cookies as soon as she got home and felt up to it. I asked her to promise me as a last ditch way to pretend it wasn’t happening. I kissed her and wondered if I had imagined a bit of a squeeze of my hand in hers. I gave her ring back to my mom and flew out the next morning.

A while passed and a package from my grandmother arrived with this  note. It’s been in my wallet every day since May, 1978. Thanks, Grams. 

She lived and baked these cookies for all of us for another ten years;  passing away shortly after her 90th birthday celebrations. She was  nothing if not a party girl. 

p.s. Her recipe was the basis of my 5/24/21 Storied-Stuff piece.