My childhood is a smattering of dough memories.

Mom kneading dough to make her braided sweet bread. Finding that bowl covered with a dish towel, a sweet yeasty smell hanging in the air, was like Christmas morning. Licking the icing bowl after it’s gooey goodness was brushed across bread still warm from the oven ran a close second. So much of the yummy.

Getting called to the kitchen table with my sister and brother once the Christmas cookie doughs were ready. We were recruited to ice the mountains of Italian cookies once they were laid out on wax paper, but the anise cookies required prep before baking. I’d break off pieces of dough, rolling them out on the table into small cylinder shapes. Tiny snakes ready to be twisted or turned in on each other, dropped onto a cookie sheet, and baked so they could get their own dose of icing. Year after year our hands paid tribute to the generations of family who’d come before, baking these same family recipes, honoring the Christmas traditions.

I grew up in the cookie dough generation when popping a raw bite was par for the course. There weren’t any cries of “but salmonella!” – you ate the raw cookie dough and you were fine. My mom loved a peanut butter cookie and often handed me a fork to press the tops with their telltale X. It was probably a good job for the kid who wanted to help bake – quick, easy, hard to mess up. She also loved making chocolate chip cookies, and this was back in the day when all chocolate chip cookies were made “from scratch”. The concept of break apart refrigerated dough was unthinkable. There’s love in the baking and all that jazz.

There were cake mixes and brownies and cookies and breads – so many wonderful memories wrapped up in baking sights, sounds, and smells. No wonder the kitchen is a magical place for me.

Linda hosts Stream of Consciousness Saturday. This week’s prompt is “dough/d’oh.” Use one, use both, use ’em any way you like. Enjoy!”