Celia M. Ruiz

There’s nothing sweeter than chocolate chip cookies and milk. As a scrawny five-year old, living in Artesia, New Mexico, I yearned for them. Abandoned by a mother who ran off with her lover, I was left with my paternal grandmother as my father went to fight a war in Korea. We were poor and my diet consisted of ground corn and water. I would sleep in the corner of the dirt floor of our crumbling adobe home, my stomach growling. One night, I had a vivid dream of rows upon rows of chocolate cookies in front of me. I could smell the bittersweetness of cacao, the vanilla, butter, and caramelized sugar. I greedily stretched out my arms, grabbing and snatching, only to wake and find my skinny arms flailing in the dark.

The silvery beams of the full moon shone through the thick adobe windows. Disillusioned, I walked toward the kitchen and saw a glass of white liquid next to the faucet. Milk! I ran and gulped down the grainy liquid. Within seconds burning hot projectiles of bile and vomit spewed from my mouth as I writhed on the ground. What I had thought was “milk” had been Tide soap mixed with water that my grandmother used to wash dishes.

Now I bake chocolate chip cookies for my grandchildren, but when they insist that I wash down the cookie with a glass of milk, I smile and say I will eat them dry.