with a Dash of . . .

I beg Murial for her mysterious cookie recipe.  I asked her five years ago, four years ago, three, two and now. Now, I ask her again as I take a small bite of this delicious, delectable cookie.

I feel light, airy, almost otherworldly, which makes no sense. It’s only a cookie.

Murial widens her large hazel eyes as if surprised.  “What? This little cookie? You want the recipe for it?”

I sigh. Muriel is 94. She’s as tiny as an elf, and as mischievous as one. “Mur, I’ve asked ...