Sift Softly

A portrait set in 1975 Northern Wisconsin

Brown sugar.

It slides through your fingers like damp sand. Tiny clumps cling to your skin, settling between your fingers while a dusting remains in your palm. A warm sweetness wafts into your nose, tempting your palate. The subtle grittiness disappears as you lift your hand for a taste. It melts on your tongue, drawing out an involuntary, "Mmm."

"Are you going next door again?" my mother asked me with a bit if disdain in her voice.

"Yeah. Mrs. Fritchell said to come over after lunch" I replied thinking of the conversations we'd have over making chocolate chip cookies.

"I know, but it seems like you're there an awful lot. Aren't you bothering her? What about the kids in the neighborhood?"

There really weren't any kids my age or gender in this new neighborhood, which was in northern Wisconsin. We had moved there just 6 months ago and the kids around me were all younger and girls. Only one boy, a brother of one of the girls, hung around, but he was preoccupied with himself, never wanting to play cars or dinosaurs.

"Awww mom. I'll play with them later. We can ride our bikes on the path, of they want." I reasoned.

"Well don't make a pest of yourself. Mrs. Fritchell is a sweet lady and all those cookies you make...I don't know."

Mrs. Fritchell was a sweet lady. She prided herself on being in her late 50's, loving life as it came. Her white hair sat neatly on her, surrounding her ears. She had a perfectly straight nose and high cheekbones that glimmered when she laughed. Her smile was symmetrical and she walked with a air of confidence, wearing the slightly oversized flowing clothes of the 1970s. She was a fantastic baker as well, at least in my 8-year old opinion.

"I'll bring some home, ok? Do you want some?" I asked as I started out the door, grabbing my baseball hat.

"Of course I do...and tell her thank you and say 'hello' for me. Is your room clean?" mom went on.

"Yes, I cleaned it like you said." I replied halfway onto our front stoop.

Racing across the freshly mowed grass to the house next door I saw Mrs. Fritchell's white car in the driveway. I wondered if Mr. Fritchell was home. His car wasn't on the driveway but sometimes it's parked in the garage. I had only spoken to him twice. Once when we met for the first time four months ago and another time when I was sitting in the kitchen and suddenly had to use the bathroom. In doing so, I had to pass the living room where he was reclining on his chair reading the newspaper. Both times he grunted more than he spoke. I dubbed him, "Mr. Grumpy". Not to his face of course, but Mrs. Fritchell got a kick out of the nickname and used it when we would have our conversations.

I jumped up the one step onto their stoop and tried to ring the doorbell before my feet landed. I'd only done that a few times and this time I missed. "Ding Dong" it rang. I stood for a moment wondering who'd answer the door, Mr Grumpy or Mrs. Fritchell? The door opened and the light from the kitchen window in the back of the house caught my eye as usual.

With a bright smile and her twinkling eyes, Mrs. Fritchell said, "Michael! Come in, come in. Mr. Grumpy isn't home right now, you see, so no need to to keep that stiff upper lip. Come in!" she invited.

I didn't mind if Mr. Grumpy was there when I was; I just never knew how to talk to him or with him. He seemed tired and out-of-sorts most of the time. A grumbling "muff" or grunt is usually what I got from him.

Mrs. Fritchell held the screen door open for me as I scurried past her and into the kitchen, finding my spot at the table in my chair with the back against the wall, so I could see everything. Mrs. Fritchell quickly followed and went straight to the oven, turned it on to the correct temperature for Chocolate Chip Cookies and whipped around asking me how my day has been.

"Mom thinks I come here too often but I cleaned my room first an the other kids are not around. At least not right now. She wants me to say 'hello'. So, 'Hello"." I replied quickly.

"Oh nonsense" she brightly replied, "I love having you over and talking and baking and laughing. Let's send some of our cookies home to her as my 'hello' back. I bet she'd like that! And as for the kids around here...well, they're never really around much, now are they? And they're all girls except for that blonde boy...what's his name?"

"Billy" I said, "but we call him 'Squirm' because he's so squirmy!!" I laughed.

"I see" she said as she brought over the large green ceramic mixing bowl with a package of semi-sweet chocolate chips, various baking utensils, and a few small towels, setting them in front of me. I knew exactly what to do. I opened the chocolate chips' bag, spilling some on the table and floor, "No, no, no, not eating them off the floor, are we?" sang Mrs. Fritchell. I righted myself back into my chair and scooped up the ones from the table into my mouth. With a few swirls of my tongue they began to melt, filling my mouth with the unmistakable taste of chocolate.

As I smacked my lips, I rose from the chair and bent over to retrieve the chips that fell onto the floor. With a silly scowl on my face I dropped my shoulders and meandered over to the garbage under the sink and reluctantly threw them away, watching them tumble amongst the other garbage and disappear.

Mrs. Fritchell was already in her seat at the "baking" table and I found mine again. She started laying out all of our supplies in an orderly fashion, naming each one as she did so. I silently watched, reciting their names in my head, trying to beat her to the punch. Once she was finished parsing out our balking tools she placed her chin in her palm, elbow on the table, and asked, "So what have you been up to since the last time we made out cookies?"

"School." I replied quickly, hoping our baking would then commence.

She sat back, crossed her legs and continued, "Of course. Your "pat" answer. What's my next question, hmmm?" she shot back with a closed-mouthed grin.

"Ok. Um. Math. We did math and I am learning the times tables and how to times two numbers by one number when they stacked."

"Ahh, yes. Two-by-one multiplication, you say."

"Yes. That. The times tables are pretty easy. It's kind of a pattern. Well, it is a pattern." I boasted of my understanding.

"That it is. And I dare say that the teacher calls them your 'basic facts'?" She inquired with a slight raise of her right eyebrow.

I stared at the ¼ cup measuring cup and said, "Yup, she did..I mean, does."

"Well, math is important you know, Michael. We--" stopping mid sentence...

"...wouldn't be able to make our cookies without it. Yes, Mrs. Fritchell. I remember" I finished for her.

"And. What else, dear?" She inquired, standing up to gather the other ingredients we would need.

"Reading and writing" I said proudly, "And if we couldn't read then we couldn't know what the directions say and if the person who wrote the directions couldn't write then there'd be no directions and then no cookies" I rattled off.

"Exactly." she confirmed and brought over the canisters of flour and sugar. She glided across the kitchen and retrieved the sifter from the bottom shelf. I hadn't used the sifter yet, but she promised that I could one day.

She brought out the eggs and butter. "What else?" she murmured to herself, "let me see."

"You know!" raising my voice in anticipation, "the brown sugar and vanilla! The yummy ones!"

"Well...think about that one first. How are they yummy and how are they not?" she challenged me.

I took on a deep breath and started, "The brown sugar is super-sweet but it's kinda gritty and sticks to everything. So I can only have a little. The vanilla smells soooo delicious but tastes horrible" I recited.

Mrs. Fritchell laughed and said to the room, "I wonder how something that tastes so horrible is in a cookie that ends up tasting so good?"

"I think it's science." I said not knowing where to go after that.

"I think you're right. But never mind, let's get the cookie crumbling!"

My mind raced, and my legs shook up and down as I sat, thinking about what was coming. Scooping, measuring, mixing, and stirring—we were about to start the ritual. I read the directions out loud, and she nodded. I did the scooping while she did the leveling, all the while talking about her daughter in college. Then the sifter came out. I sat back to watch, once again, how she sifted the flour.

But this time she said, “Sit up straight, young baker; for it is your time to sift your first sift!”

I found myself on the edge of my seat that without even thinking about it. I had already measured out the flour and it was waiting to be put through the strange sounding contraption. She pulled on the handle a few times to engage the mechanism and it made it familiar squeaky-metal sound. She handed it to me with the handle facing me. I took hold.

She looked at me and me at her, raised her nose, and said, "Do nothing."

I did nothing except hold the sifter by its handle.

"Do you know how?" she inquired with a light sternness.

"I think so. You put your 'measured' flour into the sifter basket and then squeeze the handle right there to make the noise and the see the flour start to spin." I tried to remember.

"Yes. But what are we wary of?"

I continued to keep my eyes on hers. I thought about the word, 'wary'. And in a flash it came to my head."Our hands might get tired!?" I replied quizzically.

"Young or old, they get tired. Often for different reasons but tired nonetheless." she added.

We both laughed.

She placed the paper towel in front of me and under the sifter, added the flour, nodded her head and winked for me to start.

I squeezed hard! My wrist slipped and flour spilled out of the sifter and created a mini white dust cloud. "Ooops!" I said, "I think that was was too hard."

"I think so, too. Hence the paper towel. Let's try again before we go to the real sifting." And so I did.

The sifting became easier as I started controlling the squeeze that I employed. She reminded me to listen for the sound and to shake the sifter a bit as I was squeezing. With as much coordination I could muster and my mouth making strange contortions, I managed to sift one whole cup of flour onto the paper towel.

"Grand! Brilliant!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms up and leaning back in her chair, "A sifter you are!"

With flour powder all over me and the table I laughed and said, "Brilliant!"

She placed the mixing bowl under my sifter, filled it with her measured flour and I sifted. Squeaking and shaking away I sifted almost the whole "called for" flour for our cookies.

My fingers grew tired. My knuckles seemed to not want to bend as much, and my hands generally had an unfamiliar ache on them. "I think that's good." I said, hoping she'd finish the job.

"I think so, too. Hands, right?" she smirked as she took the sifter from me and sifted out the last of the flour effortlessly, "Better you than me!!" she joked.

We continued with our regular routine: breaking eggs and picking out the shells that errantly found their way into the mixture, packing brown sugar and eating the crumbs that fell to the table, and measuring vanilla. After sniffing the open bottle and simultaneously saying, 'Mmmmm; BUT don't taste it!!' with a shared chuckle, I noticed how the little measuring spoon, full to the brim, reflected the light overhead. We opened the sugar canister, adding to the stickiness of the table. The crème de la crème of emptying the chocolate chips into the well-mixed batter was always my job.

"Make sure to be fair; in cookie-making and life." Mrs. Fritchell reminded me again.

Spooning the soft, lumpy dough onto the cookie sheet, shearing it off the spoon with our fingers and trying to secretly take a lick before scooping out the next one, we talked more about whatever seemed to be on our minds.

Into the oven they went and out came the comic books. As we waited for the cookies to melt into a soft, chewy delight, we read comics such as "Archie", "Peanuts", and "Spider-Man" which filled the table; and the scent of our well measured ingredients magically combining filled the room.

A car door slammed outside and Mrs. Fritchell took notice. "Ahh, Mr. Grumpy must be home." she declared.

"Ok" is said not knowing what else to say.

He opened the door and I could hear him take in a strong whiff of the baking cookies. "Mr. Michael is here, I smell!" he bellowed.

"Fi-Fi-Fo-Fum" teased Mrs. Fritchell.

"Yes," he mumbled, "fi-fi-fo-fo-fo-fum-fum-fo," and after removing his shoes alongside more mumbling, he retreated to his den as we heard the television turn on and a definitive "slump" and "gruff" as he made himself comfortable in his Lazy-Boy.

"He's fine. Tired man. Works hard, ya know. He loves the cookies. He won't eat you. He'll eat your cookies though." Mrs. Fritchell said.

"Mr. Grumpy." I whispered.

"Yes. My Mr. Grumpy." Mrs. Fritchell agreed.

Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding!!

From the den we heard the rough voice of Mr. Grumpy telling us the obvious, "The cookies are done!! Make sure I get some. And make sure the milk isn't too cold. What's for dinner anyway?"

I didn't hear Mrs. Fritchell's answer to Mr. Grumpy as I was busy putting on my oven mitts to help with the spatula work. We turned the oven off, opened the door and the heat hit us like a wild northern winter wind but full of heat.

"Watch it!" she said, and brought the hot cookie sheet to our cooling racks on the table. In our respective seats we began transferring the cookies onto the cookie plates...one plate for Mr. Grumpy, one for my mom, and one for me.

"You know I never eat them..." Mrs. Fritchell said, "I just like to make them." We laughed and I put three warm, gooey cookies on a paper towel for her. She loved them as did I. And when my milk was gone we wrapped up our sweet treats for the others.

I looked at the our baking areas in silence. Mrs. Fritchell said that she would clean up the kitchen as she always said, "My kitchen is my personal space that needs to be just so!" She winked at me and walked toward the front door, flipping on the porch light.

I followed in line only to take a peek down the hall to see if Mr. Grumpy was still around. When I reached the screen door I yelled, "Goodbye!" to Mr. Grumpy and received no reply; I think I heard a snore though.

Mrs. Fritchell opened the door and the cool evening air mixed curiously with the scent of baking; I didn't want to leave just yet. She held the door and looked at me, scrunching her smile a bit sideways as her eyes twinkled a bit, "Ya know, Baker Michael, I think this was batch #8, no? Isn't that your favorite number, eight?"

"Ya" I managed to get my voice say, "Thank you, Baker Fritchell."

Taking my and mom's cookies with me I exited through the door I came into just 2 hours earlier.

As the screen door closed I looked back to her and Mrs. Fritchell said, "Just be a little softer with the sifter." and she closed the door.

********

From the Gallery

Teaching comes in many forms.

I've never forgotten how to make chocolate chip cookies. I've made them with children I worked with in daycare and with my own kids twenty years and thirty years, respectively.

The recipe stayed the same.

The sifter did not.

And neither did Mrs. Fritchell.

I still remember the sound of that little metal sifter squeaking in my hands, the flour dusting the table, and her voice reminding me to be softer.

Some lessons stay with you long after the cookies are gone.