Discover the Surprising Secret Ingredient in My Mom’s Oatmeal Cookies: A Dash of Aggression!

The year 2021 felt like a blur. I can’t recall the exact days or months. It was a whirlwind of emotions, especially as I spent countless hours with my Mom during her time at New York Presbyterian. This routine started back in December 2020 when she called, distressed by chest pains. I was there for her, day in and day out, from morning until night. I was not just a son; I was her advocate, her friend, and her companion.

For six months, we shared her hospital room for twelve hours each day. During this time, I was also trying to restart my liquor brand, Sorel, while juggling meetings, emails, and everything that comes with being a CEO. It was a lot to handle—finance, marketing, production—while grappling with the truth of watching my Mom’s health decline.

One morning, I glanced over at her. She was sitting up, her face aglow with a smile as she enjoyed some jazz and tackled a crossword puzzle. It reminded me of her long history with the NY Daily News, a paper she’d read since it cost just five cents. Then she asked me if I planned to do some baking that day.

“No, Mom,” I replied, rearranging her oxygen tubes. “You’re in the hospital.”

She seemed shocked. “Oh, I forgot. You’ve had to remind me a few times.”

Music drifted through the room, comforting her as she adjusted to the unfamiliar surroundings. At 93, she showed signs of cognitive decline, but the melodies grounded her. These tunes called back her memories, temporarily pushing away the fog of forgetfulness. In those moments, it was as if she was free from the burdens of time. I often wondered if she was aware of her condition. I think, deep down, she might have known.

The smell of freshly baked goods is something that always lifts my spirits, much as jazz did for her. My childhood was steeped in the rich aromas of baking. After having five children, Mom left her job as a research scientist to focus on us. From cakes to breads, the kitchen was her domain. At 12, I began learning these lessons from her, just as she once learned from her father, a trained chef.

As we sat together, she made an offhand remark about the loneliness in the world, drawing wisdom from a light-hearted comic strip. I couldn’t quite grasp how a funny moment could trigger such deep thoughts.

Mom was not just my caregiver; she carried the weight of history. Born in Harlem in 1927 to Caribbean immigrants, she faced hardship throughout her life, including the Great Depression.

“Don’t let them waste my lunch,” she said one day, referring to the uneaten hospital meal on her tray. “We don’t waste food around here.”

“Eat what you can,” I urged. “Remember, you’re in the hospital.”

She chuckled and nodded, as if recalling the many lessons life had taught her. Her journey wasn’t easy. She went through Jim Crow, WWII, and the Civil Rights Movement—but she never took it out on us. Perhaps her outlet was in baking, particularly with her famed “Aggression Cookies.” This recipe wasn’t just a fun treat; it was her way of channeling frustration. In the ’60s, she turned her feelings into dough and, unbeknownst to her, started a movement long before “rage baking” became a trend.

Here’s how she made her Aggression Cookies: mix all the ingredients in a large bowl. Beat the dough until it feels just right. Roll into balls the size of walnuts, and flatten each one on a baking sheet. Listening to her stories about baking always reminded me of the strength it takes to transform emotions into something beautiful.

As I observed her in the hospital, her aged arms covered with bruises from tests, I thought about how much she missed her aunt, Alma, a strong woman who had a big impact on her life.

One day, I asked her if she was tiring of the struggle. It was a gentle nudge to see how she felt. She didn’t respond directly but instead reflected, “I’m glad I taught you to fight. Life is a fight,” she said, her breath shaky. “But it’s worth it.”

Her words struck a chord. It made me question how her resolve shaped her life and what it might mean for my own path. I realized that her fight was not just about her life but a lesson for me to hold onto as well.

In the years since her passing, I’ve come to terms with my own emotions. The loss of Mom has been profound, but I find myself able to channel that anger into something greater. Sometimes, I wish I could just relax with her one last time, celebrating ordinary moments together.

Music would play, and she’d sing along to her favorite songs, like “Blues in the Night.” I remember how she would beam at the memories those songs brought back to her.

Through the struggles and the memories, she left me with a legacy. Mom taught me to channel pain into creativity. She transformed her frustrations into a world full of sweetness and compassion, leaving behind a different kind of fight for future generations to carry on.

Now, I aim to honor her by making a difference, reshaping the world around me, much as she did. Daily acts of defiance can lead to beautiful outcomes. Her lessons guide me still, lighting my path as I carry forward her spirit of resilience.

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