The Cookie Cure

by Susan Stachler

  With that, I heard the chime of the xylophone calling the last of the guests into the ballroom. Mom turned to me and said, “You don’t have to do this.”

  “No, I want to,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know until we got here that this was going to be so hard.”

  With tears in her eyes, Mom said, “I’m proud of you.”

  “I know,” I said, looking down at the carpeted floor.

  She grabbed both my hands. “Look at me. I’m proud of you.”

  “Mom, it’s okay. You can take your seat.” Now was not the time for this. Why hadn’t we talked about all this sooner?

  “There are hundreds of people in that room, and I want you to know that I’m the luckiest one.” Her voice broke. “You let me be there for you. I watched your bravery for months. I’m in awe of how you’ve handled yourself.”

  “Mom, it’s okay. We’re fine. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Just as my role as a patient had ended, so had Mom’s as my caretaker. I had been her sole focus over the past year. Being at the charity event was an outward acknowledgment of the fact that we were moving on. My apprehension dissolved as I realized I was only doing this for one person, and she was right in front of me. I didn’t care about anyone else in that room but my mom.

  As I stood in the dressing room with the other models, I stayed off to the side, not wanting to be seen. I planned to walk down the runway and back and then go straight to the car to head home. As I listened to the conversations and stories the women around me were sharing, I heard them comparing their experiences. I caught myself absentmindedly running my fingers across the scar on my neck. A few months ago, I was spending my Fridays hooked up to IVs, and now, somehow, I was a survivor. A survivor of what? I’d just done what was in front of me, whatever the doctors and nurses told me to do. I hadn’t done anything special. There was no one reason why I had survived and the next person hadn’t. As I looked around the room and saw so many vivacious women, I realized I was one of the lucky ones.

  At last, I changed into the outlandish attire that had been selected for me: a patterned shirt with excessive ruffles, high-waisted black denim mom jeans, and a matching corseted jacket trimmed in leather and lace, accessorized with a black belt with hammered silver filigree to complete the look. It was definitely not my style, but by then, I didn’t care. Without even glancing in the mirror, I took my place in line.

  We’d been given a seating chart, so I knew Mom’s table was at the end of the runway, on the left. As I waited behind the black curtain, I planned my runway strategy, deciding to look at Mom once, smile, then look away and turn back down the runway.

  It was chaotic backstage, and I tried to stay out of the way of professional models changing in and out of the newest spring collections and stylists adding finishing touches. Quietly, I watched the line ahead of me dwindle to nine women, then eight, then seven. Any last reservations that I might have had were drowned out by the blaring, upbeat music, the emcee shouting each model’s name and backstory, and the applause from the enthusiastic crowd. Then, suddenly, I was up next. With a quick look up to the heavens and a slight smile to myself, I stepped out onto the runway.

  For a few seconds, all I could see were bright lights. Before I took even one step forward, I focused on finding Mom. She was beaming with pride, and her giant smile was reassuring. My eyes met hers for a split second. I’ve got this, Mom. Taking a deep breath and looking straight forward, I threw my shoulders back and stood taller. My feet began to glide down the platform. Look at me. Here I go.

  Over the roar of the crowd, I heard the emcee announce, “Twenty-three years old…four months out of treatment…her Aunt Sue…her dad…cookie company…Susansnaps on your tables…”

  I felt my insecurities melt away. The crowd was clapping, and there were audible gasps, laughs, and cheers. That’s me! By the time I’d made it back up the runway, I felt amazing. Being a survivor may not define who I am, but it is definitely a part of me. Remaining on the stage with the others to receive a standing ovation, I looked out at Mom again. I shrugged my shoulders, and we both laughed. We did it.

  • • •

  I’m not sure if it was our cookies on the table, my introduction on the runway, or perhaps the ridiculous outfit I was modeling, but something about me caught the attention of a journalist who had attended the fashion show. She called and made arrangements with Mom to visit our shop, and less than twenty-four hours later, Jennifer, a journalist from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the city’s leading newspaper, was on her way to our garage bakery for an interview.

  Jennifer was nice, but since it was an informal visit, it was hard to decipher what were interview questions and what was just her own personal intrigue. I did find it curious that Mom had baked a variety of cakes and pies for her to sample, but she didn’t take a single bite. Instead, we got into talking about the gingersnaps, Aunt Sue, Mom and I working together, and even my treatment. She jotted down a few lines on her spiral notepad. It meant a lot to us that Jennifer had taken the time to come meet us and see our shop, and she seemed pleased when she left, saying, “I got what I need.” I thought we’d done a nice job, but there was no way to know.

  On Sunday morning, I woke up to Mom whispering, “Susan, are you awake? Want to ride with me to get a newspaper?”

  “Yeah, I’ll meet you outside,” I said.

  I was scrounging through Mom’s purse for quarters as we pulled into the gas station. “How many copies should we buy?”

  “Get one, and let’s see if they put anything in,” said Mom.

  What did she mean, put anything in? Jennifer had left us certain that she’d gotten what she needed to write an article.

  I popped a couple of quarters into the newspaper dispenser and grabbed the top copy. Sitting in the parking lot, I pulled apart the paper and handed Mom a few sections. I quickly flipped through mine. “I don’t see anything. Where’s the food section?”

  “Hold on a minute. Maybe there’s a review or small business section in the back.”

  Almost before Mom could finish her sentence, I began laughing. “Mom!”

  “What?”

  I held the newspaper away from her so she couldn’t see. “We’re in the paper!”

  “Okay. Well, let me see!”

  “No. I mean, we—you and I—are in the newspaper.”

  I turned the living section toward Mom, unveiling a full-color photo of the two of us baking cookies, beneath a headline that read, “Sweet and Powerful.”

  As Mom grabbed the paper to get a closer look, I exclaimed, “We’re the feature story! Turn the page, it keeps going.”

  She flipped the page. “Oh no. There’s another picture of us!”

  I read the article over Mom’s shoulder, zeroing in on the sentence that read, “Cookies are weapons in their war against family’s illnesses.” This exposure was unbelievable, and I was in shock. Is that me? Is that what I look like now? It was weird seeing myself in print. I’d been sure Jennifer was going to profile Mom’s baking, and she’d at least mention her award-winning banana-nut cake or her decadent chocolate chip cheesecake. But apparently, she had found the reason why we bake our gingersnaps and how we started working together more interesting.

  What a week. And to think, I had been worried about five hundred women staring at me at a charity event. Now we were featured in the Sunday paper. Looking out my window as we drove home, I couldn’t help but notice a newspaper with our article in it sat on each and every driveway. Knowing that those papers would soon be read, I wondered out loud, “Mom, do you think we’ll get any response?”

  Dear Sue,

  You had a beautiful voice and loved singing so much. Even though you would get nervous and splurge on pricey Mitchum antiperspirant, your onstage performance with your high school choral group meant so much to you that it was worth it. But modeling on a stage woul
d have been unthinkable for you. Of course, there weren’t any elaborate fund-raising events back then, so a fashion show like the one Susan participated in wouldn’t even have been a possibility. But besides that, we couldn’t even make it across my bedroom in Mother’s high heels, trying to mimic the beauty queens of the day, without our ankles wobbling. Most of all, you never wanted anyone making a fuss over you. The fewer people who knew about your disease the better. And your humility made me love you all the more.

  So why did it mean so much to me to see Susan on that stage? Good question. When I cracked open the door to the expansive ballroom and saw fifty tables set with ten places each, I nearly panicked. I thought, What in the world have I done to her? I know, I should have thought it through more carefully before I convinced her to model at the gala. But I couldn’t help myself. I knew that Susan would remind those women that cancer can happen to anyone. When Susan stepped out from behind the curtain, the ballroom exploded with deafening applause. She didn’t even flinch. I was amazed by her grace and self-confidence. She didn’t quite look like her old self yet, but there was a radiance in her face I hadn’t seen before. I was watching Susan and seeing some part of you. I know that Susan did this for me…and maybe she stepped out there for you too.

  13

  This Little Cookie Went to Market

  Nothing ever goes quite the way we expect, and that article in the paper was no exception. If we had expected the phone to start ringing off the hook, we would have been wrong. We did get a few calls from people wanting to buy gingersnaps and share stories about their own friends or family undergoing cancer treatment. Those comments meant a great deal to us, but they were hardly a deluge of business.

  We got eight orders from that article. It wasn’t much, but we were happy. As far as we were concerned, there were eight new people who were going to share the cookies with at least eight more people. Then we’d have sixteen customers.

  The article also brought about an unexpected visit from our local NBC affiliate. It was just a short spot, and we had no idea what we were doing on TV (that’s another story), but it resulted in the owner of Sydney’s Spices, a local store, offering us a free, one-year supply of spices for our gingersnaps.

  Mom and I were delighted. We took this feedback as encouragement to keep going. We weren’t getting more than a few orders a week, but at least it was a start.

  We took the opportunity to think bigger. I wondered, If that Atlanta Journal-Constitution journalist was interested, who else might be? I thought if I could get us into another newspaper, that would mean a handful more people who’d know about us. Building our business one customer at a time was fine with us. After our article ran in the AJC, I contacted our three neighborhood newspapers. And we continued to prepare for the show at the Mart. As Mom sewed together three-inch strips of fabric, alternating black and white, for our tablecloths and jigsawed wood to make display stands, I tried my hand at writing about our mother-daughter business. I worked on a little blurb about our home-based operation that I hoped would spark the curiosity of buyers in our booth. We naturally divided tasks. Mom was doing her part, and I was pitching in too.

  I learned at an early age that a job half-done is a job not done at all. In our family, Saturday mornings meant chores. One Saturday, when I was seven, I was assigned to dusting. I grabbed a rag and ran to the living room so I could be the first one to call out, “Mom, I’m all done.”

  We had to pass inspection. As Mom came around the corner, she said, “You finished very quickly. Are you sure you want me to look?”

  I had swirled the rag around and collected some dust, so I said, “Yes, I’m ready.”

  As Mom lifted the candleholders from the end table, I cringed.

  Swiping the table with her fingertips, she said, “Susan, I thought you said you were done. Is this your best?”

  “No,” I said, knowing I hadn’t followed through. “I can fix it.”

  But it was too late. Mom took the rag and said, “You had your chance. You should have done it right the first time.”

  I felt awful as I watched her take the items off the table and show me how to do a thorough job. As she completed my task, she shared some wisdom. “You know, Susan, when you do a job partway, it’s like you never did it at all.” I didn’t like being called out for not trying my hardest, and I decided right then it would never happen again.

  So when it came to exhibiting at the Mart, I was all in. I had “learned to dust,” and that lesson applied to this too. This was it. We’d spent nine months preparing, and now, it was showtime—not for me or for Mom, but for our gingersnaps. We didn’t know how the show would go or if our idea would work, but we were about to find out.

  When the day to set up our booth arrived, I went out to the shop early and began counting how many containers we had to pack in Mom’s car. We’d filled twelve clear plastic storage bins with our time, creativity, and marketing skills. Looking at this stack that we’d poured our hearts and souls into, I was amazed at the amount of work we had done to turn one cookie into a company. Mom and I were finally just an hour away from taking our menagerie of signs, backdrops, lights, and product samples, and transforming them for the next three days into a Susansnaps display and sales center.

  As I slid our toolbox and collapsible stools into the car, Mom came up behind me and asked, “Are we going to make it all fit?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “but it’s fine. We can always come back for more or just take the rest tomorrow.” Mom went around to the trunk and started jimmying and juggling the containers, trying to create more open space. It definitely looked like we weren’t going to be able to fit everything.

  So we hadn’t quite thought this part through. When we created our display, we never factored in how we were going to get it to the show. I could tell Mom was stressing out. She seemed to be regarding the overloaded car as some kind of personal failure, but the packing process was simply something we had overlooked.

  Seeing that she was hell-bent on not leaving anything behind, I said, “All right, Mom. I can always hold something.”

  “Great,” she said. “I can fit more in if you move your seat up.”

  I jumped into the front passenger seat and scooted forward, calling, “Is this good?”

  “No, pull up as far as you can.”

  I started laughing. “If I go any farther, I’ll be on the hood of the car!”

  As I somehow yanked the seat forward a teensy bit more, Mom was able to wedge in another container, and she declared, “We’re in!” Plopping the last bucket into my lap, Mom instructed, “Don’t move. I’ll get the rest.”

  “The rest?” I was beginning to feel like one of those clowns packed into a miniature car at the circus.

  After a minute, Mom came back and said, “Watch your left arm.” As I looked over my shoulder, six eight-foot PVC pipes and four wooden risers slid past my head, resting between the two front seats. Slamming the trunk shut, Mom shouted, “That’s it!”

  Usually, I don’t mind Atlanta’s skyscrapers, traffic, and one-way streets, but I have to admit that circling the Mart’s expansive buildings, which cover four city blocks and house seven million square feet of exhibition space, was intimidating. As we moved toward the loading dock, I realized how silly our little car looked next to the big vans and trucks with professionally printed company names and logos that were steering around us. For months, our goal had been to do everything we could to get ready for the show. Now, we didn’t just want to be there; we wanted to do well. I felt energized by the challenge. Looking out the window, I saw license plates from Tennessee, Ohio, Utah, and Arizona. People were all over the streets and sidewalks, unloading massive trucks and taking dollies, forklifts, and pallets in and out of the convention center. Meanwhile, we were in a small black Volvo. We had one cookie to sell. Clearly, we were going to be the underdog, and I felt a competitive edge coming back to
me, something I hadn’t noticed just working in the shop.

  Mom and I had invested the better part of our holiday profits into the trade show entrance fee and preparations. But even more than that, we had poured our emotions, love, and passion into this cookie. Our gingersnaps weren’t simply flour, sugar, and spices. They had been an outlet for us, a therapeutic release, for months. As we got stronger, our business did too. It had been exhilarating to work and focus on creating, dreaming, and doing—to figure out, on our own, each step of the process. And together, we had.

  If we’d been going to the Mart to sell something generic, like chocolate chip cookies, then maybe I wouldn’t have felt like so much was at stake. The mere fact that we called our cookies Susansnaps represented an unspoken commitment we’d both made to get this right, to not fail, to give it our all. It represented Aunt Sue’s name, my name, and an idea Mom and I shared. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how much of a healing process building Susansnaps had been.

  As we pulled up to the loading dock, I finally said out loud what I suspect we both had been thinking. “There’s no turning back now.”

  A dock worker tapped on Mom’s window. As she rolled it down, he shouted, “Ma’am, you got a dock pass?”

  Handing over our document, Mom proudly announced, “Yes, we are here for the gourmet food show.”

  The worker said, “All right, ma’am. We’ll getcha taken care of.” As he directed us closer, Mom cautiously steered the car between two semis.

  “We didn’t pay for extra help,” I reminded her.

  Mom nodded and said, “Suz, get out. Grab something. We can do it ourselves.”

  With my arms full of boxes, I heard Mom call out, “Thank you. We’ve got it.” We might have thought we were doing a great job of blending in, but the mere size of our car outed us as newbies. A forklift pulled up next to our car, and the operator called, “Mmm! Sure smells good.” Staring at our humble pile of boxes among the towering pallets being unloaded from other vendors’ trucks, he started teasing Mom. “Lady, is this all you got? If that’s it, give me your booth number, and I’ll lead the way.”