It started with the smell.
I woke up to that buttery, toasted scent that always meant something good was happening downstairs. For a moment, I thought I was a kid again, running down the stairs on a Sunday morning, expecting pancakes or maybe Grandma Salome’s legendary biscuits. Stretching, I pulled on a hoodie and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
But what I found made me stop in the doorway.
There she was, in her robe, hunched over the counter, fumbling with what looked like a pile of broken cookies. Parchment paper was everywhere, crumbs scattered across the counter like some kind of crime scene, and in the center, a half-assembled cake sitting awkwardly on a chipped blue plate.
“Morning,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual even though I wanted to laugh.
Grandma Salome startled like I’d caught her red-handed. She muttered something about “just fixing a little accident,” waving her hand dismissively. But I saw the frantic way her fingers moved, trying to piece the broken bits back together, layering frosting like mortar between cookie ruins. Off to the side, a box of pre-made cookies sat wide open, still wrapped in crinkled plastic.
That’s when it clicked.
She wasn’t baking from scratch today like she always claimed. She was using store-bought cookies — and judging by the sorry state of the counter, things hadn’t exactly gone to plan.
I leaned against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you were the type to cheat, Grandma.”
She gave me a look — half amused, half exasperated — and motioned for me to come closer. “Keep your voice down, Ellis.”
Curious, I tiptoed into the kitchen like we were conspiring against the world.
“This is…” she started, then stopped, her eyes darting toward the clock. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Pretty sure it looks like you’re committing pastry fraud,” I teased.
She huffed a laugh and wiped her hands on her robe. “Okay, smart mouth. Maybe it is. But you can’t breathe a word about this.”
“Who am I gonna tell?” I shrugged, picking up a broken cookie. It looked suspiciously shiny. “What’s the big secret anyway? You’re cutting corners, so what?”
Grandma Salome sighed dramatically and motioned me closer still, until I could smell the buttery sweetness clinging to her.
“These aren’t regular cookies,” she whispered like she was revealing state secrets.
I raised an eyebrow. “They’re not poisoned, are they?”
She smirked. “Depends on your definition.”
Then she pulled a small glass jar from behind the flour canister. I squinted. Inside were tiny greenish flecks suspended in what looked like sugar crystals.
“Is that—?”
“A special sugar,” she said proudly, like a pirate showing off stolen treasure. “Home-infused. Took me two tries to get the dosing right.”
I stared at her, stunned.
“You’ve been…baking that kind of cookies?”
“They’re for me and the girls,” she said, bustling around, scraping crumbs into a bowl. “After church, we meet up, play a little Rummy, gossip about the pastor’s new girlfriend.”
I blinked. “Wait, you and your Sunday church group?”
“Not the whole group,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Just the good ones. Bernice, Patsy, Lorraine.”
I had to sit down. Grandma Salome, who once grounded me for sneaking a wine cooler, was hosting secret edibles parties?
“You’re serious?”
She grinned wickedly. “Oh honey, it’s the only way I can stand listening to Patsy brag about her daughter’s third husband.”
I laughed so hard I nearly knocked the bowl of crumbs off the table.
“So what’s with the store-bought cookies?” I asked once I could breathe again.
Grandma shrugged. “I tried making the dough myself, but the texture got weird with the infusion. Store-bought saves time. Besides, we’re not looking for Michelin stars, just a good giggle and a nap.”
She glanced at the clock again. “Speaking of which, they’ll be here any minute.”
I stood up. “Need help?”
She looked relieved. Together, we salvaged what we could, stacking the decent-looking cookies onto a ceramic platter and dusting them with powdered sugar to hide the cracks. I found a bunch of doilies in a drawer — who even uses doilies anymore? — and helped arrange them underneath to make everything look intentional.
By the time the doorbell rang, the kitchen looked almost presentable.
Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and winked at me. “Showtime.”
One by one, her friends trickled in. Bernice with her oversized hat, Patsy in her leopard print scarf, and Lorraine, who still wore her “Sunday best” like she was meeting royalty.
They greeted me warmly — I’d known them all my life — and settled around the kitchen table, chatting and laughing like teenagers at a sleepover.
Grandma passed around the “special” cookies with a knowing look.
“Blessings for all,” she said, raising her glass of iced tea in a toast.
“Blessings,” they echoed, giggling.
I stayed to watch for a few minutes, hiding my grin as Patsy tried to shuffle cards and ended up dropping half the deck on the floor. Bernice couldn’t stop giggling. Lorraine was already making wild bets like they were in Vegas.
Grandma caught my eye and winked again.
Maybe I’d always thought of her as just my sweet, no-nonsense, biscuit-baking grandma. But today, I saw the rebel spirit still burning behind those warm brown eyes. A woman who’d lived through decades of heartbreak and triumph, loss and laughter, and decided she was damn well going to enjoy herself however she pleased.
I slipped out of the kitchen, letting their laughter follow me up the stairs, feeling strangely honored to be part of her secret world.
And maybe, just maybe, a little inspired.
After all, if Grandma Salome could find a way to turn a Sunday afternoon into something magical, what was stopping the rest of us?
If you loved this little peek behind the curtain of family secrets, don’t forget to like and share this post! What would you do if you caught your grandma red-handed too?
