Rockstar Bug Cookies

Date of this story: 1978.

One day in high school English class I overheard a cute guy, Laine, talk about his love of gooey chocolate chip cookies.

I worked up the nerve to brag about my mom’s delicious Oatmeal Chocolate Chip recipe.

“Oh yah? Bake me some and bring them in tomorrow,” he said. Just the fact that he made eye contact made me melt.

“Of course!” I replied. 

I thought about those cookies all day – and how I would convince my mom to buy the ingredients. After school, I removed the chocolate-smudged card from the family recipe box, then scoured the cabinets to find what we already had to help me with the pitch.

“We don’t need oats, flour, sugar, or baking soda, so that saves money.”

“Aren’t you a little old to bring cookies to school?” she asked, scanning my ingredient list and shaking her head.

My request consisted of real butter, not margarine. Real milk chocolate chips, not artificially flavored. I needed these cookies to be legendary.

“Walnuts are expensive, Kathy. And I bet everything you found in the cabinets is expired.”

“Please, Mom!” I begged. “Everyone, including my teacher, is expecting me to bring them in.”

Skeptical, reluctant, and haunted by mom-guilt, she agreed. Off we went to Smitty’s to secure the goods.

We finished dinner, and I cleaned the kitchen for my big night of batter mixing, greasing cookie sheets, and baking.

I daydreamed about Laine feeding me a warm, ginormous cookie as I reached the last step in the process: Folding the chocolate chips into the batter.

Wait. Something is moving in there, I noted. Tiny black dots, wiggling.

Oh dear Lord. BUGS. I had mixed bugs into the cookie batter. How did I miss that? Anxiety set in and I tried not to panic. There were too many to pick out.

What was I supposed to do? Throw it all away? And how would I explain this to my mom? Plus, these cookies were ready for the oven!

I assessed the situation using my 15-year-old critical thinking skills: 

     1. The bugs were so tiny they couldn’t possibly do any harm.

     2. And seriously, you had to squint in good lighting to even see them, much less identify them as beetles.

     3. Once they cooked for twelve minutes at 350 degrees, they’d become teeny crispy corpses of protein.

I finished baking the cookies, the whole time gaslighting myself. “They look absolutely delicious!” 

The next morning, I wrapped them up on a pretty plate and brought them into English 101.

Internal dialogue: How would they know? They’re gonna know! But how would they know?

These Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies were a HIT! 

My classmates swarmed around me, nom nom nomming in delight, comparing notes on the clever balance of browned edges vs. chewy centers. No one noticed anything unusual at all, whew! 

Laine served two thumbs up to the high ratio of chocolate chips (I put in extra to cover up the bugs).

Nerd-girl rock star status achieved!

It wasn’t until three years later that I confessed.

While my friends and a few random classmates (including Laine) and I were at the final senior school dance, we shuffled away from the main area to hang out. We sat under the dim lights of the gymnasium bleachers and shared our favorite stories from years past.

Embarrassing stories. Horrific stories. Funny stories, Sad stories. 

I’d always planned to take my bug cookie experience to the grave, but this was The Ultimate Circle of Trust. A truly safe space to share our secrets, so I joined in. 

“I have a good one!” I said, wagging my finger in the air. Everyone turned to me with full attention, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Remember those oatmeal chocolate chip cookies I baked for English 101 freshman year?” I asked, now holding my stomach because an uncontrollable giggle fest had set in. 

My friends exchanged cautionary glances. “Yeahhhh, what about them?” 

I finally caught my breath between laughs.

“I…I… accidentally baked bugs in them! I think they were weevils from the flour or the oats, because I forgot to check the expiration date.” I barely let the words escape before I slapped my hand on Laine’s lap. I wiped away the tears to calm down. “Can you believe that?”

They all stared at me, stone-faced, as if I were a greasy life-sized cockroach.

“KATHY. YOU FED US BUGS?” Laine said. “I’ll never trust that smile again.”

Here it is, almost fifty decades later, I don’t think anyone died from my bug cookies.

But even so, maybe it’s a good thing I stick with crafts.

My mom’s OG recipe card. All that mess is from me using it!

My mom’s (in)famous cookie recipe.