Milk and Cookies
By Summer Bacon
My school bus rounded the corner at Pine Valley and slowly climbed the hill. The fear inside of me was so intense, I could barely breathe. It was a moment I had been anticipating for weeks. At school that day, all that I could think about was: I was sure I was going home to my death. It was 1977, and I was 17 years old.
My mom and dad were out of town, and my nineteen year old brother Britt and I were left in charge of running the family recording studio. My job was to make what we called "Spoiled Brat" cookies, and keep the coffee fresh, and the bathroom clean. Generally I loved the sounds that emerged from our home based business. Many friendships were formed with our clients list which included the 60s music team Chad & Jeremy, Phil Hartman (before he was on Saturday Night Live), and many new talents. For a seventeen year old girl, it felt glamorous and exciting, even when they were laying down drum tracks at 3am on a school night. Having grown up in an actively musical family, I was often lulled to sleep by all night hootnannies and sound mixes of our family music.
Today was different, however. There was a new form of music emerging, called "punk rock." I'd heard that these bands were often rowdy and rough. They dyed their hair blue, and spiked it. They wore safety pins in their ears, and then dangled chains from the pins that would be attached to spiked dog collars on their neck. Black leather and black make up completed the ensemble. I'd never met an actual "punk rocker" before, but I was about to today.
A very popular and trashy punk band was going to record at our house. I was mortified. How could my parents go out of town and leave us with this? I envisioned the band members strung out on drugs and alcohol, trashing the place, laughing and spitting on me, perhaps even raping me, oh my God! What was I going home to? I walked very slowly from the bus to home. They would already be there when I arrived. I had set out a jar full of fresh Spoiled Brat cookies (made with oats, chocolate chips, coconut, sometimes ground pecans) that morning.
Everything was eerily quiet when I entered the house. No noise, nobody snorting cocaine in the living room, no wild sex party. I put my books on the staircase, and took a deep breath. Maybe they weren't here yet. Maybe they cancelled! I could smell the fresh brewed coffee, however, a telltale sign that if they weren¹t there, they soon would be. I checked the cookie jar it was empty! I could hear muffled laughter and voices coming from the studio. I just couldn't believe how quiet it was. It didn't make sense.
Perplexed, I dutifully went to the kitchen, rolled up my sleeves and set to work making more cookies. Then, it happened. There was the familiar creak of the studio door as it opened. I heard the sound of a heavy boot hitting the floor and someone stepped out of the studio. I winced. Klunk. Klunk. The heavy boots walked towards the kitchen, and out of the light of the hallway emerged a medium sized young man, exactly as I had pictured he would be, except his hair wasn't blue. His spiked hair was jet black. He wore black leather pants and a leather jacket. His ear was pierced with a safety pin, and a chain dangled down to the spiked dog collar he wore around his neck. He walked tall and stiff. He looked tired and angry. I swear he looked like he could have bent the rod-iron fence with his bare hands and eaten it for a snack. He didn't smile, but walked straight up to me and stared at me. I stared back for a terrifying second. He raised his hand. I was sure he had a gun. "This is it!" I thought, my stomach knotting up in preparation for my untimely death.
His hand raised up, but there was no gun. He had a cookie! A Spoiled Brat cookie, no less! He took a big bite out of the cookie, and then smiled as he crunched, and said, "These are good cookies."
I could barely speak, but I smiled and said as courteously as I could, "Thank you. I made them. They're called Spoiled Brat cookies."
I will never forget the look on this man's sweet face. His eyes almost filled with tears. He looked shocked, strangely crestfallen. He shook his head in disbelief as he struggled to find words. "You, you made these? This is a home made cookie?"
"Yes. They're Spoiled Brat cookies. It's my mother's recipe," I said. I could not believe I was having this conversation. He grasped at his next words. "Um, uh,would you, I mean, could you, would you make me some more? They're all gone. I can't believe you made these."
I didn¹t quite understand. "I..uh," he continued softly, almost embarrassed, "I've never had a home made cookie."
Needless to say, the days flew by quickly. There were just three quiet, kind, gentle band members who recorded at our house, eating cookies and drinking coffee. Sure, they recorded some pretty trashy songs, and they made some pretty off-color jokes. But, with me they were always kind, and the gratitude from that one young man, the lead singer, was obvious everyday. When I would come home from school, he would emerge from the studio, cookie in hand, and we would chat for a bit while he watched me make a fresh batch. A great story...what else is new :)
His band became famous, and I have recently seen him acting in movies. Now, fast-forward to 2003. I was driving into Phoenix, returning from my open sessions in California. My gaze wandered to the prison at the side of the road. I thought about the cold cells and unpalatable meals the prisoners must be fed. I've always seemed to adopt a rather insensitive attitude of, "Well, too bad for them! If they hadn't committed the crimes, they wouldn't have to live like that." In other words, I felt they shoulda known better.
"Hmm," I thought, "I wonder what Dr. Peebles thinks about prisons. I wonder what kind of prison he would design."
It was one of those occasions where my car trance and ponderings allowed for clear verbal communication from Dr. Peebles. "I would make a prison with clean, comfortable rooms, fun activities, and I would serve them milk and cookies," he said very loudly.
"Milk and cookies?" I said, appalled, "Why?"
"Because," he said, "They have never had enough milk and cookies. Summer, some of these people don't even know that there is an alternative to the lives that they have lived. Give them milk and cookies. Show them that there is another way to live, and teach them how they can have it."
I was instantly reformed. I flashed back to the young punk rocker. I wondered if that jar full of fresh cookies might have truly changed his life.
Since this communication with Dr. Peebles I am feeling a calling to take this work into prisons, along with fresh milk and home made cookies. A Milk & Cookie Ministry is about to be born. Stay tuned.
-----------------------------------
Spoiled Brat Cookies
Recipe by Lisa Bacon
(with personal commentary by Summer)
Start with your basic chocolate chip cookie recipe, BUT
Add an extra egg.
Increase the butter by 1/4 cup.
Add a pinch more baking soda and a pinch more baking powder.
Add one teaspoon of cinnamon to the dry ingredients.
Substitute wheat flour or half wheat and half white flour.
Use only brown sugar, if that's all you have on hand,and,
Lisa says, "You might want to add a bit more sugar to the recipe overall."
Okay,
Now, stir in:
1 cup of oats (quick cooking, regular or a mixture)
1/2 cup coconut
a handful of raisins (if you like raisins)
a handful of any kind of nuts (pecans were a Spoiled Brat favorite)
If the mixture gets too thick, add a splash of half n half cream until it's a good cookie dough texture.
Oh yeah, and you might want to add even more chocolate chips if you have them on hand.
Drop by tablespoonfuls onto a cookie sheet. If they spread too much and stick together, then just break them apart. The shape doesn't mess with the taste. If you have crumbs, you'll want to put them into a pie crust later anyway, just like Lisa did. No plans for pie crust? Freeze 'em (if they survive the finger dabs of family and friends).
Bake at the usual chocolate chip cookie temperature. Something like 350 degrees for 10 minutes or so. You can preheat the oven if you have time.
Eat warm or cold. Dip into ice cold milk, if you're not "lactose intolerant." (Or, take Lactaid, or simply sniff the milk to trigger a homeopathic digestive reaction, according to Dr. Peebles, or refrain from the cookies altogether...or drink tea...or water...or...) By the way, does anyone remember "raw milk" with the cream at the top, delivered at the door in glass bottles? Dip the cookies into coffee...decaf or regular, if you drink it.
Play punk rock records. Try to crunch cookies in rhythm with music. You are safe. Sigh. Say a prayer of thanks to God for milk and cookies. Thank God for the "sweetness of life." You are loved.
God bless you, indeed.