Are We There Yet?

When will we be there?

It was December of 1952, and we were driving from our rabbit farm in El Cajon (just east of San Diego, CA) to Oxnard, California. In my Mother’s arms was my new little brother, David. My dad couldn’t wait to show his mom and dad my brother.

Traveling by car, it was more than 190 miles on old Highway 1, on a one-lane road (in a 1946 Hudson) each way except through Los Angeles. It would have taken more than five hours in those days on that road. As the oldest, my six-year-old self didn’t really care how long it took. I knew that my favorite cookie was at the end of the road.

Like my father before me, carrot cookies were the best, next to peanut butter candy, of course. As soon as we arrived, Grandma would give me two of her cookies. Looking back, I think it was mostly so that I would be quiet and let the grownups talk. It actually worked.

My grandmother was a giant of a woman, physically and spiritually. She was, as they say, a force to be reckoned with. She was six-foot-one, and my grandfather and father were six-foot-two. My mom was only five-foot-ten.

She and my grandfather were married when she was fourteen, and he was fifteen.

This year, I’m looking forward to turning seventy-seven. My wife will make my favorite carrot cookie. I can still hear my grandmother offering me cookies every time we went to her house.

I’ve never shared this recipe with anyone other than my family. At this point, those of you in Medium are like family. Please enjoy. I have since I was a small boy.

The recipe is rewritten for clarity: