Your mom had set out ingredients for us to use already. This, though very kind, is also a very odd thing, because I can't imagine my mom doing the same.
I suppose that sums up the difference between our houses. And our kitchens, I guess. It's probably a good thing we didn't decide to bake at my house. I know how that one ends already.
Here's a funny story: if I had a nickel for every time I went to someone's house to bake cookies and couldn't figure out how to use their automatic kitchen sink faucet, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but I hate coincidences. (And those faucets. Technology is advancing too fast for me to keep up with it.)
Regardless, it goes well. We are mature enough to bake something simple. I think it's a good thing that we made pan cookies instead of regular cookies. That would be a bit too much coincidence for me.
But, you know, it feels a bit familiar.
It's raining. The warm lights in your house match color. I sit in front of the oven, peering in like a little kid would. Somewhere vaguely behind me are the tap of your footsteps, the rustle of a blanket, before you sit down as well and wrap your arms around me.
The pan cookies end up tasting very good.
Somewhere along the way, your dog steals a spam musubi and starts to eat it on the carpet.
At roughly 6 PM, I fall asleep on your lap. And for those brief 20 minutes, I sleep more peacefully than I've ever slept before.