Mary’s Shortbread

I haven’t baked cookies in a long time. Not since, I moved here a year ago. I’m not certain why. I had brought all the cookie cutters, parchment paper and volumes of recipes. Yet they remained unused until today.

Today has no special significance. No birthday, no day of cherished memories, just a rainy December Saturday, and for some odd reason, the long repressed desire to bake has returned.

This morning while drinking my black coffee I decided to make one of my past favorites, and also one of the easiest that I traditionally made for Christmas gifts. I made “Mary’s Shortbread.”

It didn’t take long for the buttery aroma combined with brown sugar to fill the small apartment where I now dwell. The recipe calls for slow baking, one hour at 275 degrees.

As I sat, the memories flooded the air combined with the warmth of melting butter. And I remembered Mary, the neighbor, the friend, whose name I used for my treasured recipe.

Mary was 38, fifteen years older than I, the hot July morning when we arrived at the small White House with the black shutters along with two very small children. Her own daughter was well into adolescence that summer, and Mary was thrilled with the arrival of a neighbor, any neighbor for that matter. In the year since she had moved to Nassau County from Brooklyn, hers was the only occupied house on the long street.

Our backgrounds were different; our interests totally unrelated, yet within the months and years that followed, she and I became sisters.

When two other sons arrived within the next thirty-six months, Mary took charge of our meals. Our family was served piping hot casseroles with crisp salad during the first few months of the new arrivals. And probably even longer than that on weekends.

If Mary or her husband, Sid walked past the door and saw mail still in the box, they called immediately to ask if all was well. Or inquire if we needed help.

On Christmas Eve, they both arrived like Santa Claus with gaily wrapped gifts for all four of our children, and another wonderful basket of goodies from Mary’s incredible larder.

And so it went for many years. Since Mary had never learned or wanted to drive, she accompanied me often for shopping or local activities. Then when the children were finally all in school, I returned to the workplace. First on a part-time basis in order to be home when the school bus returned daily. Later as their activities increased and the four remained until later in the day, my working hours also increased.

I didn’t forget my friend, but I didn’t have a lot of time. So perhaps I didn’t remember her and her kindness quite as often.

I always remembered her shortbread however, and always had several pans frozen ready to give her if or when our paths crossed. They seemed to do that less and less as the seasons quickly changed . There really wasn’t any reason; she only lived two houses away. I suppose I believed I was too busy

One snowy afternoon while sitting in my office, my husband called, and said, “I have bad news. Mary died this afternoon.” I couldn’t believe it; she had not been ill. Or had she, and I hadn’t noticed? It was too late to wonder. My friend was gone.

I guess that’s when I stopped making the shortbread. It was twenty years ago, and the small buttery triangles just didn’t taste quite as good after that. I found myself disliking the odor of the melting sugar and butter during the hour they were in the oven. I pretended I preferred other cookies that were more intricate, and took less time to bake. I forgot or tried to forget about Mary’s Shortbread.

I now live in a new town far from the little White House with the black shutters.. The children are grown and live far away. My love, my beloved, went even further several years ago albeit reluctantly. My world has totally changed, and perhaps I have too.

There is a new arrival in our residence, She appeared quite lonely last night at dinner. I heard her name is Mary, and I think I will bring her the cookies this afternoon. I’m no longer too busy.