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# Classic
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/classic/
- Published: 2026-07-06T09:38:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-07-06T09:38:00.000Z
- Description: “Classic,” an ode to the humble American cookie, written Monday, July 6, poem 187 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo, "Love is a Cookie" by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Poems, July, Monday, Summer, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

It's a rainy Monday  
the kind that cries out  
for the oven to be heated.  
The type that begs for   
a broken egg or two.  
That beckons brown sugar  
to leap from supple sack   
to measuring cup.  
  
Muscle memory in lead,  
a container of flour   
joins an orange box   
and a "when it rains, it pours"  
blue cylinder on the island.  
  
Though someone else's kitchen  
determined, divining hands   
seek a wee brown glass bottle  
from the depths   
of a relative's spice cabinet.  
  
A scan of the fridge door  
reveals just enough butter:  
one stick salted; one without.  
That's alright; fix that in post.  
  
Conjured out of the sighs  
of plunging   
barometric pressure,  
cookies will themselves   
into being.  
  
Without a   
trusty stand mixer  
an audible is called:   
melt the butter;  
pour it into bowl.  
  
Crack and whip   
the pastured eggs   
into warmed glass;  
swirl the soft dough   
into a glossy canvas  
awaiting heaped   
of fresh-cracked pecans  
and a tsunami   
of semi-sweet morsels.  
  
And now the hardest step:  
roll the dough into batons  
in a slick sheet   
of freezer paper;  
stow the twin logs,   
the ones that feel   
like drowsy babes,  
into the freezer for  
a many hours slumber.  
  
After a full, sluggish day,  
the magic and science   
of time hydrated   
stubborn flour grains.  
  
Distinct ingredients,  
now recognizable as  
an American classic:  
Toll House cookie dough.  
  
An impatient hand  
plucks Batch A   
from the frigid depths.  
  
A red Victorinox   
paring knife  
chunks solid mass  
into a range   
of rugged mountains.  
  
Place each peak   
onto parchment;  
place the tray   
into a hot hearth.  
  
An excruciating eleven  
and a half minutes   
separated by glass partition  
and then the steaming discs   
repatriate with this side   
of the thermometer.   
  
Shooing over-eager   
littler hands  
away, away, away!  
then thwacking larger hands:  
Wait! Wait! Wait.  
  
After a nine hour build-up,  
this simple proof of love   
sits briefly in hand  
before meeting long-awaiting teeth.  
  
Love is a cookie  
baking is the language  
eating is the kinship  
a smile is the thank you.