In honor of the impending doom of Mother’s Day I would like to celebrate the glory of the woman who gave birth to me. Mother Dearest. Ma. Mommy. Hey you. Lady with the cookies. My mother.

There I was reading an Archie comic book. I was in 11th grade and it was the first day I had contacts. Just like a fairytale my mother was in the kitchen baking cookies. As I read my sister’s comic books I eagerly awaited fresh cookies.

A loud CRASH!! “OH NO!!” my mother yelled. I jump up from the couch and run into the kitchen. Flames pouring out of the oven and smoke rolling in all directions. My mother adeptly handles the (well-used) fire extinguisher and aims the spray into the oven. Ah…another disaster averted.

My mother begins to clean the oven and I flop myself back down on the couch. I return to my reading to the sounds of my mother scrubbing away in the kitchen. Long since immune to the effects of black smoke, I don’t even cough.

An hour and two comic books later.

The noise in the kitchen has been quelled. New noises….more baking. Once again I look forward to freshly baked cookies. Not even ten minutes later: “OH SH**!!!” I jump up from the couch and run into the kitchen. Mother was standing in front of a flaming toaster (a flaming toaster? Seriously?) and calmly reaches for the fire extinguisher as flames lick the bottoms of the cabinet above. I roll my eyes and go back to the living room. My mother laughs “I guess you can’t bake cookies in a toaster.”

I didn’t get any cookies that day. That’s okay though, she usually burns them anyway, even when she doesn’t set fires.