The Cookie Cure

by Susan Stachler

  People were flocking to the store in droves. Maybe we should’ve locked the door for a day to regroup and map out a plan of attack, but we didn’t. We had family and some close friends pitching in when they could, but at the end of the day, it came down to the two of us. No one was going to care the same way we did. It got so bad that Mom and I didn’t even have time to do laundry, and my friend Stephanie had to go shopping to get new clothes for us. Mom had to call UPS and schedule double pickups. The truck would come once in the morning and then again at our regular time, between four and five o’clock every afternoon. Every time someone asked for an item we’d run out of, I wanted to cry.

  But we had dreamed of this kind of success, and we were not going to fail. Each order, each customer, each comment, each email, each phone call, each dollar was important to us. But we certainly learned that being successful is not always easy, and things don’t always go smoothly. One big issue was a glitch in the settings on our website. Because the box for automation wasn’t checked on the order page, we had to process every online order manually. That meant printing out every order, entering the credit card information by hand, and inputting the information for the shipping label. And our online store was inundated with traffic. The system had worked fine when we had eight, twelve, or even twenty orders a day, but it became incredibly time-consuming when hundreds of orders were coming in—and we didn’t have any time to spare! We stayed in constant motion for more than three weeks straight. At one point, Mom was so tired that she would take a shower, get dressed for work the next day, and lie down on the couch, afraid that if she got into bed, she’d never wake up!

  About five days into this crazy period, I looked at Mom and, amid the chaos around us, said decisively, “We are not failing at this.”

  She agreed. Although we were being bombarded with an outpouring of support and interest from all these new customers, part of me felt like we had choked. I think our exhaustion made us feel like we weren’t going to pull this off. And the more that idea crept in, the more I thought, Do we know what we’re doing? Luckily, that fear only fueled us to push harder and plow ahead. That, and the response we were getting from our customers, which was truly inspiring. Cancer patients would email and say, “Your cookies are the only thing I can eat!” We were getting dozens of calls and emails from people just thanking us for doing something good and urging us to keep going. It was amazing. And it was clear we were doing something more important than just baking cookies—we were making people happy.

  So even though we would work until one or two o’clock in the morning and be back at it by five, it was worth it. And the more my hands ached and my feet throbbed, the more I would think, I am lucky! During our busiest days, I would stop and say to myself, I am blessed to be here, doing exactly this. And, somehow, we just kept going.

  One day, we had to bake fourteen thousand gingersnaps, in all five flavors, which was really a no-no for us. It created a logistical challenge, and we had to box cookies as fast as we could to avoid a clutter of different flavors piling up. Throughout the day, our seasonal bakers would toss any irregularly sized or shaped cookies, of any flavor, into sample bags that our helpers could take home. The rejects were still delicious, after all.

  As Bobby, one of our guys who helped with packaging and shipping, was finishing up for the day, I said, “Don’t forget your sample bag.” A minute later, when I saw him going from table to table, I asked, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “My bag was right here…” he answered.

  “Okay. Right where? Where is it now?”

  His eyes got as big as saucers, and he started laughing nervously. “Oh no.”

  “Bobby! Did you box it up and ship it?” I asked, already knowing that he had.

  I don’t like mistakes, and I’ve been known to get feisty when it comes to wanting things done right. But this was too funny to be mad about. Our shipments had already been picked up for the day; his sample bag was long gone. Someone in America got a really special treat. We waited for a customer to call complaining about it, but apparently the recipient enjoyed their assortment, because we never heard anything.

  Somehow, we survived the glorious mayhem. In the end, all the orders that needed to be delivered by the holidays made it.

  We’d had our most epic holiday season to date. But even if we hadn’t, we still would’ve celebrated. That’s what we do. Whether we’ve had sales or no sales, big orders or small orders, a profitable year or a year where we’re barely hanging on, we’ve always—since the very first holiday season that I started helping Mom—marked a year of work at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Nuevo Laredo Cantina. This December, during our super long workdays, you’d hear us calling out, “What are you going to order at Nuevo?” or “What do you think, tacos or enchiladas?”

  Mexican food has a special place in our family that goes back to when Aunt Sue was in treatment. After finishing a horrible round of chemo that had required her to be hospitalized for days, Aunt Sue insisted that her husband take her out for Mexican, so she could celebrate with a margarita. The image of my young aunt leaving the hospital, weakened but wanting to go out, wanting to celebrate life, is one that has always stuck with me. I couldn’t begin to count how many times I’ve thought about that story. It has nothing to do with Mexican food, and everything to do with the fact that Aunt Sue created her own happiness, even under the worst circumstances. I’ll never drink a margarita without thinking about my aunt.

  Before we headed out for that year’s dinner, Mom put a note on the front door of the store: “Closed for End of the Year Party. Thank You for Making It a Good Year!” I was sitting at the computer, checking delivery statuses for the last time, while Mom was busy taking post-holiday inventory. It was the first quiet day we’d had in weeks, and I finally had some time to think about everything we’d accomplished. I was surprised to feel my lower lip begin to quiver.

  “Mom,” I said quietly. “Do you ever think about what it took for us to get here?” I was exhausted, physically and emotionally.

  Mom sat down in a chair across from me. “Yes, sweetie, I do.”

  A few tears streamed down my face. “I love what we do, and I love working here. But you and I own a gingersnap cookie company. Gingersnaps. This was never supposed to happen.”

  Mom nodded. Then she came over and wrapped her arms around me as she whispered in my ear, “I love working with you too.”

  Dear Sue,

  I love answering questions and taking orders at work. It’s a good thing, especially after we were on TV. I took more than one hundred phone orders in the first two days. It was crazy! I was floored by how much our two-minute spot had meant to people, and how carefully they had listened to and remembered the details.

  I’d answer the phone and hear, “I saw CBS, the show about the mother and daughter who started this cookie company. I wanted to ask how the girl and her dad are doing.” I couldn’t believe it.

  I always thanked the caller for watching and for their thoughtful comments, then proceeded with the business of taking their order.

  On one of the first of these calls, when I was nearly ready to hang up, the pleasant woman on the line said, “Wait. I wanted to say something else to you. I just wanted to tell you, I’m really sorry about your sister.” That just about took my breath away. She’d seen your picture on TV and remembered your part in Susansnaps.

  I have to laugh thinking about how you’d call me from Carver’s after a dinner shift and say, “I’m leaving soon, so get the tube warmed up!” It took a few minutes for the TV to come into focus. By the time you got home and walked into my room, we’d be ready to watch The Tonight Show together.

  Decades later, I sat in my family room watching television and heard your name, saw a picture of you and me together on the news. We were on TV. Unimaginable.

  20

  Sugar Crystals

  January came and,
for the first time, Mom and I decided to reward ourselves with a bonus. Coincidentally, around the same time, I stumbled upon some amazing airfare rates on Delta.

  “Remember what Lauren from CBS said? Before she left here?” I asked Mom. “She said that we should let her know when we’re in town and that we’re welcome at CBS anytime.”

  Mom said, “Yes, why?”

  “Well, there are flights to LaGuardia for one hundred twenty-nine dollars. That’s practically buy one, get one free. Let’s go!”

  I didn’t have to say much more to convince her.

  A few weeks later, we landed in New York and headed over to CBS. Lauren gave us a tour, introducing us around the newsroom and to people who had helped put our piece together. We weren’t sure if we would have a chance to meet Katie Couric—she had an incredibly tight schedule. After the tour, Lauren welcomed us to take a seat in her office and said, “Get your camera ready. There are no guarantees, but Katie does have to walk by my office on the way to the studio.”

  It was like we were waiting for Elvis or something, and I started to feel a little silly. I wanted to say hello, of course, but I didn’t want to look like some overeager fan, and I was painfully conscious that everyone there was very busy and we were taking up their time.

  Lauren’s phone rang. She picked it up, then turned to us. “Katie knows you’re here, but she is very busy…”

  I was just about to tell her not to worry about it when Katie Couric zoomed by the office, waving to us through the window. We waved back, and then, to my surprise, Katie dashed through the door and gave me a hug.

  “Hi! How are you?” she asked, then looked over to Mom. “How is your husband?” Then she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t have much time. You’re welcome to watch me film.”

  We followed her into the studio and watched her work. I was still really hoping I would get a minute to say something to her. I didn’t know exactly what to say, but I felt the need to let her know how much her support meant to us. I was secretly hoping she’d nail the promos without having to redo them, so that maybe there would be a minute or two to spare in her schedule.

  But her assistant had come over to us. “Thank you for coming,” she said as she politely shooed us toward the door. My heart sank.

  Then Katie called out, “Wait! Do you have a few minutes? Can you come to my office?” I could not believe it.

  The assistant looked impressed. “Well, aren’t you something? This never happens.”

  Lady, I know! I thought. There are a lot of things that weren’t supposed to happen but did!

  Mom and I followed Katie up a narrow flight of stairs to her office, and she invited us to sit down on her couch. My head was spinning—all I could think of was how far we had come, from the chemo recliner, to the garage bakeshop, to the store, and now here.

  Katie asked how we were doing, and she was genuinely interested in hearing more of our story. Just like that, the three of us began talking. It became a personal visit as we talked about cancer and family. She understood a lot of the stuff we had gone through, and at one point, she even got up and grabbed a framed picture of her family off her desk and showed it to us. She asked about Susansnaps and tossed out names of editors at major magazines who she thought we should contact. Maybe I should have asked her if she could make some introductions or give us their contact information, but, honestly, I was just happy to be sitting there and chatting with her. I was enjoying where I was in that moment. I had learned to appreciate what was in front of me. I was taking it all in. I wish I could say I took this opportunity to say something profound, but the words got stuck somewhere between staring at the Susansnap sugar crystals clinging to Katie’s lip gloss and appreciating all it had taken for us to get here. Mom, me, and Susansnaps.

  Dear Sue,

  There’s something I want to tell you. Remember when I was starting out with the dessert business and I asked Susan to help me? I told you I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t back then, but I still coerced Susan into working for me, and I’m so glad she did. Eventually, working side by side, we figured out how to get Susansnaps up and going.

  On a regular basis, customers ask me, “Does your daughter still work for you?” When I answer, “No, not anymore,” they look perplexed and almost disappointed. I actually kind of enjoy it. In that split second, I always think, What a wild ride this has been! And I feel my heart swell with pride over Susan. Sue, through the years something changed. Susan has gradually taken the lead on our cookie company. Then, I continue with a smile, “Actually, I work for her now,” and before I allow for any reaction, I add, “and it’s great!”

  21

  Unsnappable

  As Mom and I rode in a taxi toward ABC’s studio in Times Square, I couldn’t help but think of the girl I used to be, that college girl with the black interview suit. The one who liked everything planned and organized. The one who liked to read the last page of a book before she began the first. I’m not convinced she would have shown up for this day. But that girl had changed. Mom and I had changed together. We went after things differently now. This day was a perfect example. It was July of 2015, and we were on our way to meet David Muir, anchor of ABC’s World News Tonight, who was going to interview us for the show’s “Made in America” segment. When we’d received an email from the producer at 1:00 a.m. with our final travel details, informing us that we had to catch a 7:45 a.m. flight, we didn’t think twice about it.

  On the plane, all I hoped was that my puffy morning face would go away and my deep, manly morning voice would wear off by the time we arrived in New York. As soon as we landed, we went to baggage claim to meet our driver, as we’d been instructed, but there was no driver to be found. Mom and I split up and searched for a driver with a sign for “Stachler” or “Laura and Susan” or even “Susansnaps.” We looked, we looked again, we circled the baggage claim. No one was there.

  Then a string of phone calls began with the dispatcher telling us, “Look for a man with glasses in a Hawaiian shirt. He didn’t have time to make a sign.”

  Are they joking? But we didn’t question it; we just began looking for the man. We went outside, up and down the sidewalk, until the driver called Mom’s phone. He was in gate D. We were in B. He kept saying, “Great. I am in D too,” and Mom kept repeating, “B. We are in bee. B like boy.” Time was ticking.

  Just then, the producer called and asked, “Are you on your way?”

  Remaining composed, Mom responded, “Yes, of course.” But we weren’t. We weren’t even in a moving vehicle.

  We should have just flagged down our own taxi, but we thought, ABC sent a driver, so we should wait. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen Mom more frantic. It was outrageous, but I started laughing. Don’t get me wrong, I was panicked too, but Mom already had that covered for both of us, and I didn’t know what else to do. I just followed any instructions she barked out at me. I’m not a runner, and certainly not in public, but when she said, “Run back inside! Look for a Hawaiian shirt,” I did.

  At one point, Mom spotted a man with glasses and yanked open the door of his van, yelling, “Susan, get in!”

  But as I was trying to take a seat, I saw that he was clearly not our driver, since he was waving a sign that said “Thompson.” Backing out, I had to tell Mom, “This is not for us.”

  Finally, our driver casually sauntered up wearing nothing less than blue-and-white seersucker pants and a Hawaiian shirt. He pointed to our ride—a gold minivan. By then, we didn’t care what it was. I said, “Good, let’s go!”

  If Mom hadn’t been there to see this, I would’ve thought I was hallucinating. We were on our way in what I’m pretty sure was the world’s only gold minivan covered with red-and-yellow floral Hawaiian carpeting, not just on the floor, but on the walls and ceiling too.

  But soon, we were stuck. I knew, of course, that New York has traffic, but this was total gridlock
. It didn’t help that our driver seemed unsure of where he was taking us. I said, “Can you just get us close to Times Square?” As the minutes passed, Mom and I stopped talking, aware that if we didn’t arrive soon, we could blow our chance. Pressure was mounting, and we didn’t think about what would happen when we got to the studio. We were just hoping we’d get there.

  The producer called again, wondering how close we were. Hanging up, I leaned forward and said to the driver, “Can you please stop?”

  He asked, “Here? Now?”

  Deciding we’d be better off on foot, I said, “Yes, stop the car.”

  With that, on a hot July day crowded with tourists, Mom and I were running through Times Square, loaded down with shopping bags full of cookies. My feet were so sweaty that they were sloshing around in my shoes, and the clip in my hair was coming loose. It would’ve been easier to sit down, throw the cookies away, and forget the whole thing. But that’s not us. We’d done some harebrained things, but this had to top them all. And the best part was, I didn’t care.

  I called out over my shoulder, “Mom, you okay?”

  “I’m right behind you,” she responded. “Keep going!”

  Finally, we arrived at the correct address, but we couldn’t find a way in. As we scurried up and down the sidewalk, I asked Mom, “How do you get into this place?”

  I was about to text the producer to meet us outside when Mom peeked around the corner and said, “Susan, over here.”

  She pointed out a security guard in a black suit with an earpiece, who was blocking a concealed black door with a little sign: “Times Square: Stage Entrance.” The guard barely glanced in our direction as we approached him; I can only imagine how ridiculous we must have looked. Then Mom said, “Excuse me, we’re looking for Fifteen Hundred Broadway.”