Cookies

 Cookies used to be what Mom made. Eschewing cookie dough because even in those days, my Grampa Jon warned it was dangerous. He was a hobby farmer and knew all about over-confidence in what we put into our mouths just because it looks or tastes good. My mother loved baking when she took the time to be at home instead of off in her big old Ford, sewing pretty things for her friends. Her baking, when done, was amazing even though rare. Because almost everything she did was competitive, her cakes were actually measured for height. The decorations were photographed and the frosting wasn't slapped on from a tin; she cooked that, too.  It was another whole stove pot experience and you were lucky to snatch a bit of that fluffy frosting on a spoon before the cake was carted off to a tea or a baby shower. The flavour was heavenly and the toppings as light as a cloud. Cookies were something Mom didn't take pride in. They were made because the big jar was empty and needed to be replenished. All the base cookie ingredients were dumped into a bowl and stirred with the flour that she insisted must be sifted. The last part was the most fun. She'd ask, did we want chocolate chips or walnuts or raisins or all of them?  Guess what the kid answer was? The aroma from the oven brought neighbours a'calling. "Hi Betty, just passing by." Out came the teapot and the chatting began. Did I inherit this cookie talent? No. Who could compete with a competer? Cookies are no longer today, only what you nibble at, they have become something other. Cookies are now part of the cyberdomain pandemic, and daily as I visit sites on my computer that used to be like an open field of fresh smelling grassy fun, it is now a mine field of little rectangular, often flashing messages, asking if I will accept "cookies". The messages don't get it. If I say yes, they stop pestering me but what is being done to my world when entering their cookies realm? And no, I don't really want to read their voluminous verbiage about privacy rules that mean nothing to me and would take up much of my leisure time. And they know it. Of course, I realize that they could care less about my actual privacy as they do possible lawsuits. It seems that we have to climb over all kinds of barriers when we enter a cybersite, mainly to protect them over partaking of their "free" services. In a world of sue-happy creatures, this has become one of the huge ball and chains of cyberspace. I assume that "cookies" means that the centipede-like sponsors of whomever owns the site, are bound to pass access to me on to its fellows. Not that I care. I have learned to ignore ads even when they are poked at me all during a game or while reading a news story. It is annoying until you understand that annoying you is part of the ad game. You look, you read. Unless you have developed masterful ability to disallow your eye to wander or be enticed by these ads, you may become frustrated and look. I am past that. It takes focus, but when I play Bridge or another game, I see only the cards and the strategy and am not distracted by the riff and raff of ads designed to grab me. They don't. Not any more, cookies and all. They're not like Mom's cookies that were undeniable and unforgettable.