a taste of comfort

a story behind milk and cookies

when i was eight, fridays were the best day of the week, not because the weekend was around the corner, but because of the ritual that awaited me at my grandma’s house. every friday after school, i’d race down the street, my backpack bouncing wildly as i made a beeline for her little cottage on the edge of town. the house was nothing fancy—just a cozy, old place with creaky wooden floors and a garden that seemed to have a mind of its own, growing wild and full of color no matter the season. but inside, there was a kind of magic that made everything else fade away.

the magic always began in the kitchen. as soon as i pushed open the front door, the smell would hit me—sweet, warm, and comforting, like a hug you could taste. my grandma, with her apron tied around her waist and her graying hair pulled back in a loose bun, would be waiting for me at the kitchen table. and on that table was a plate of the softest, chewiest chocolate chip cookies you could ever imagine, still warm from the oven, the chocolate chips glistening like little drops of joy. beside them, a tall glass of milk, frothy and cold, with tiny beads of condensation running down the side.

this wasn’t just a snack. it was a tradition, a ritual that anchored my week and made everything feel right. i’d dunk the first cookie into the milk, watching as it soaked up just the right amount before taking that first bite. the combination of the cold milk and the warm, gooey cookie was pure bliss. and the best part… my grandma’s stories.

as we sat there, munching on cookies, she’d tell me tales from her own childhood. she’d talk about growing up in a time when the world moved a little slower, when kids played outside until the streetlights came on, and when making cookies wasn’t just about the end result, but about the joy of mixing, baking, and sharing them with the people you loved. there was one story that stood out—the one where she and her brother, convinced that the summer sun was as hot as any oven, tried to bake cookies on the sidewalk. spoiler: it didn’t work. but the way she told it, with her eyes twinkling and her laughter bubbling up, made it sound like the greatest adventure ever.

those fridays were like stepping into a time machine, back to a simpler world where the biggest decision was whether to eat one more cookie or save it for later. as i got older, those fridays at grandma’s house became less frequent, eventually fading into memory as life got busier and more complicated. but the memory of them—the taste of the cookies, the chill of the milk, the warmth of her stories—never left me.

when i was thinking about what to name this substack, i wanted something that captured that feeling of comfort, nostalgia, and simplicity. “milk and cookies” just felt right. it’s more than just a nod to those childhood afternoons—it’s a reminder of the power of the little things, the simple pleasures that ground us and give us something to look forward to. it’s a tribute to the idea that no matter how chaotic life gets, there’s always time to pause, take a breath, and enjoy a moment of sweetness. after all, sometimes the best stories are the ones told over a glass of milk and a plate of cookies.