The Day I Learned Stealing

Last updated on December 1, 2021

The smell of fresh baked cookies was lingering in the air. We were playing outside and the scents coming from my Grandma’s kitchen drove us crazy. I don’t think there is anything more tempting to a child than warm, fresh-baked cookies.

“I could go in the kitchen and get one,” I thought, but I knew it wouldn’t work. My Grandmother had eyes and spies everywhere and she could sense things. I don’t know how she did it, but she always knew when I did something wrong.

She never laid a hand on me, but I knew she could -and would- if I wouldn’t behave. There was always the possibility of a serious spanking, also there was the death penalty. The instant death by being thrown into the middle of next week, and similar life-threatening stunts like that.

Later on, after dinner, she would hand me a glass of milk and a couple of cookies, but I wanted one now and so did my friends. 

I was the worst cookie thief on this planet. I could never hide my tracks, instead I left evidence behind everywhere I went. It didn’t help me much that my Grandmother had the ability to make me talk with just one look. She raised her eyebrow, looked me in the eye, and I started spilling the beans.

“I will show you how it’s done,” a neighbor boy said, and I just looked at him. We all laughed, we knew how to steal cookies, but we also knew it never worked. Adults are evil, they count the cookies, that’s why they always know.

The boy waited until my Grandmother had left the farmhouse, then he walked in. We all felt sorry for him. He would get caught, and he would be in trouble.

A while later he came out, holding a bunch of cookies with both hands. We sat down on the grass and enjoyed our treasure. My Grandmother liked the boy, we all did, and now we would never see him again. He would be killed later on, we just knew. There was no way my Grandmother would not find out.

“You never steal just one cookie,” he explained. “You always take a whole row, this way everything looks normal and they don’t know. “

I looked at him with admiration. What a genius this kid was! He was right, cookies were always laid out in rows of ten or twelve. They were lined up like little soldiers, resting on the kitchen table to cool until they got the final touch. That’s why I always got caught. I only took one or two cookies, and the empty spots I left behind, could have been seen from outer space. 

“You mean we can steal more than one?” we asked, and we all smiled. Life would be better from this moment on. This was cookie heaven.

My Grandmother didn’t mention the missing cookies at dinner. There were no raised eyebrows, no Spanish Inquisition. It had worked, and I was in awe.

Years later, when I was much older, I confessed and shared my knowledge about How-to-steal-a-cookie, with my Grandmother. She was sick and fragile then, but she listened to me, and I saw her eyes watering, she was laughing so hard. “This is genius,” she said, and we both smiled.

I was a good kid; I was good in school and didn’t mess up much but I was a cookie thief, still am until today, ask my friends, they know.

Part of my “Summer Treasures.”