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Cookie Baking 101

Dawnwind

Start with something easy the therapist had said. Something that takes a relatively short period of time and results in a true sense of accomplishment at the end. Like cookie baking.

The one drawback there was that David Starsky had never made cookies. Oh, on occasion he'd taken the manly jobs in the kitchen like grilling meat and roasting potatoes--even the odd spaghetti sauce to impress a girlfriend. But cookies? Not in this lifetime. Well, the last lifetime anyway, because this was certainly a whole new one with a whole new set of rules.

Really, how hard could chocolate chip cookies be? The recipe was right on the back of the chip bag, for goodness sake. Millions of people made the gooey all-American treat every single day. So Tuesday would be Starsky's inaugural baking day. Maybe if he did well, he could institute a once a week plan. First chocolate chip, then branch out to peanut butter, maybe oatmeal and cinnamon sugar.

Since his doctors hadn't cleared him to drive yet, Starsky used his morning exercise time to walk to the local grocery to purchase the necessary ingredients. Then, since his energy level wasn't even close to normal he decided on a nap to ward off the tight pains radiating along all those healing incisions across his chest.

It was times like this when Starsky cursed James Gunther. When he wanted to start a project and knew he didn't even have the stamina to stand in the kitchen and combine flour with sugar. The knowledge hurt--not so much physically, although that was present, too. The hurt was soul deep, the raw fear that he would never measure up again, never be able to take his place next to Hutch and be a street cop again.

Shaking off those bleak thoughts he vowed to tackle cookie baking. The occupational therapist kept telling him get back to the basics of living--so far even bending down to tie his shoes was a struggle with his weakened upper body and damaged muscles. Cookie baking would involve stirring, lifting, hefting a heavy electric mixer and juggling cookie trays while opening the stove. Things his mother had done just about every day of his childhood. She'd been a whirlwind of energy at five foot nothing in stocking feet. He was--well--within the ballpark, by a few inches, of six feet, with the energy level of a 90-year-old asthmatic. It was both sobering and challenging and David Starsky could never resist a challenge. Cookie baking 101, look out.

The short siesta took up more of the morning than planned. Then, after the nap a visit from Huggy Bear occupied the lunch hour. A physical therapy appointment followed, preceding a long delayed dentist appointment to get his teeth cleaned. Huggy dropped Starsky back at the little apartment only moments before Hutch came home frustrated after a long day shepherding a green rookie fresh out of the Academy. Peppering the air with invectives about the caliber of graduates the powers that be were allowing out on the street these days, Hutch slugged down a beer between expletives while prowling the kitchen preparing dinner. Starsky listened with a smirk, reading Hutch's unspoken subtext; that he missed his partner as much as Starsky missed being there.

There went the entire day, without a single egg broken or butter creamed. Since he'd never even unpacked the cookie ingredients from the grocery bag after the morning walk Starsky just shoved the whole thing into an empty cupboard. Hutch would appreciate the surprise of freshly baked cookies on his return from work tomorrow, giving Starsky the whole day to cook. There were no appointments on the docket, no prescheduled visits from the legion of friends who'd helped him recover and still brought over casseroles and company about four times a week. Wednesday was the perfect day to cook, no distractions or commitments.

Thus, here he was, ready to invoke the collective memories of generations of Starsky women and make his first batch of cookies. Flour was measured, sugar scooped out and an inordinate amount of time was wasted ferreting out a bent measuring spoon from the utensil drawer. The preliminaries proved far easier than plugging the recalcitrant beaters into the electric mixer.

Grasping the molded plastic handle Starsky enjoyed blending the softened butter into the grainy sugar, then adding eggs and vanilla. The marvelous alchemy of changing familiar foods into creamy sweet batter pleased him. This wasn't so hard! And he could already taste chocolate studded cookies, like a sense memory of the kitchen in the Brooklyn walk-up he'd grown up in. His Ma handing out beaters to lick--one for him and one for Nicky, then spooning the batter onto blackened cookie sheets and sliding them into the preheated oven. That heavenly smell of warm chocolate on a winter afternoon. Of course, it was mid summer here in Bay City, but no matter.

With a satisfied grin Starsky consulted the recipe once again. This was fun. He wiped his hands on his jeans leaving bleached streaks on the denim, ignoring the white splashes of flour and sugar that decorated the linoleum under his feet. Dumping the dry ingredients and plowing the beater through the thickening mixture was more difficult than he expected. As the hand mixer's motor whined, giving off an unpleasant odor like a manual clutch when shifted into third on a steep hill, Starsky felt dulling fatigue and a burning ache creeping over his left arm, shoulder and damaged left lung. He sucked in a breath through a constricted throat, switching off the mixer with a shaky hand. The beaters were so solidly cemented in the thick batter they stood erect in the middle of the bowl but Starsky didn't have the necessary strength to extricate them.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He wrapped both arms around his chest willing the hated pain down to a tolerable level. Taking a pain pill would put him out for the rest of the afternoon and he'd never get the cookies done. A better idea was an aerosol treatment to ease his breathing and a rest on the couch to restore his flagging spirits and hopefully reduce the ache in his lungs.

Whoever said this was an easy afternoon activity? What was that altogether too perky occupational therapist thinking? Baking cookies, shit, this was blatant torture in the guise of common domesticity.

If he couldn't manhandle electric beaters through a concoction of sugar, flour and eggs how could he possibly hold and shoot a weapon? He'd never be able to cope with the weight of a gun and the recoil after it fired.

His muscles still trembling despite an ineffective self-administered massage Starsky dropped heavily onto the couch, flicking on the TV. He'd been half following General Hospital during his recuperation and the theme music was just finishing when he found channel 7. Harpo Marx-coifed Luke Spencer mooned over angelic teenage Laura Weber but even the usual improbable antics of the citizens of Port Charles failed to catch Starsky's interest. He was tempted to chuck the whole cookie making endeavor down the garbage disposal as a bad idea, but the seductive song of freshly baked cookies still managed to lure him. Just a rest then and he'd finish the job.

Starsky was about to drift off to sleep when a special bulletin announcement jolted him out of his doze.

"Channel 7 news has just received word that a shoot out is in progress in front of Parker Center. One officer is down and another was wounded when gunfire erupted in the street." A stern faced man in a gray blazer and blue tie read his copy with just the proper modicum of concern in his modulated tones. "We take you live to Melody Paterson who is across the street from Parker Center. Melody?"

Starsky shot up from his recline, not even feeling the renewed burst of pain from the abrupt position change. Hutch, where was Hutch? Please, God, please have him out cruising the streets and not in the building. He gulped air like a beached fish, combing the televised scene for any sign of familiar faces. Tiny cops in blue uniforms crouched behind cars and hastily constructed barricades. Who had been shot? Who was dead? It was too similar, too scary. He had no real memory of his own shooting in the police department garage, but every single member of the force who'd come to visit had regaled him with their own versions of that unforgettable May morning. He'd stored everyone else's memories along with the newspaper accounts and magazine articles of the incident like an imperfect rendering of the truth. None of them were his truth, which had been about pain, fear and the sharp, hot smell of blood on the pavement. And the sound of automatic weapon fire…

As Melody Paterson, a buxom brunette in a bright red coat dress and matching channel 7 logo microphone, started to answer her summons from the newsroom gunfire resounded loudly behind her. Smart lass, she ducked, her on-camera composure shattered as bullets took out the windows of two parked cars directly in front of the building. Where Starsky had often parked, when he'd been able to drive.

Bracing his hand over his ribs Starsky hitched agonized breaths, the sound too real, too evocative of his own ordeal. He had to get there, help out, find Hutch. No, find Hutch was the first priority. Where was he?

"Melody!" Co-anchor James Carstairs shouted from his safe perch in the newsroom. The screen had gone dark when the shots were fired and finally resumed with the image of a visibly ruffled Carstairs. His explanation that they were experiencing technical difficulties and would attempt to contact Melody after these important messages fell on deaf ears. Starsky couldn't think, couldn't feel, couldn't see or hear anything beyond the galloping thunder of his own heart and hoarse rasp of his own breathing.

What if Hutch had been there? How soon would the department call to say he was dead? Starsky had to move, get out of the house, get to Parker Center and find out what the hell was going on.

A commercial extolling the virtues of the 1980 model Ford flashed without notice from the man staring blankly at the TV and then finally a disheveled looking Melody Peterson appeared, plastering a patently artificial smile on her pale features for the benefits of her viewing audience. Starsky ignored Melody's rapid-fire narration of the on-going sniper crisis, staring intently at the scene behind her.

SWAT officers in their militaristic battle gear were lined up in front of Parker Center now, powerful long range rifles at the ready. The camera paned upwards to the building across the street where just the butt of a rifle could be seen peeking out from the rooftop. A sweeping overview of the entire street, no doubt from some hastily commandeered traffic helicopter, showed patrol cars everywhere and uniformed officers cordoning off the perimeter for two blocks in every direction.

His common sense reasserting itself, Starsky knew that even if he did race down there in the Torino and flashed his inactive badge, he'd never be allowed anywhere near or inside Parker Center. He'd be more of a hindrance than an asset.

Getting up to pace Starsky circled the couch, his eyes glued to the television set, the burning pull on his thoracic and intercostal muscles a welcome distraction to keep his mind off the worst case scenario; a blond haired man in a tan leather jacket lying in a heap under the wheel well of the Torino.

Get a grip, Davey-boy. Starsky thought with bitter sarcasm. The Torino wasn't even there. That was just a hold over from his own recent nightmares. Where could Hutch be?

Over breakfast Hutch had mentioned babysitting the rookie on a safety tour of local elementary schools. If that was so, he had to have been far away from Parker Center most of the day. Safety patrols were actually kind of fun, in Starsky's estimation anyway, and a wonderful way to get young children to view the police as their friend. The presentation usually consisted of handing out safety coloring books, stick-on police badges and impressing the kids by sounding the siren and flashing the cars roof lights. That was where Hutch was, entertaining little kids. Starsky stalled on his exhausting circuit of the couch, watching the TV as the SWAT swarmed the brown stucco building with deadly intent.

His heart literally skidded to a halt when the phone blared shrilly over the raucous siren noise emitting from the television. Once it started to pump again, Starsky beat his own pre-shooting personal best for a one hundred-foot sprint, grabbing the phone off the hook mid second ring.

"H'llo," he panted, no where near able to speak coherently.

"Starsky?"

It was such an overwhelming relief to hear Hutch's voice Starsky sagged against the kitchen wall, trying to come up with a reply that didn't sound like he was a terrified two year old crying for daddy in the middle of the night. This must be what cop's wives--and husbands--had to go through daily.

"Starsky??" Hutch sounded way more insistent this time and Starsky knew he had to answer.

"You're okay?"

"We weren't anywhere near there, babe," Hutch said in soothing tones. "We we're still at Penrhys Elementary, half an hour away. I didn't even know what was going on until we got out of the assembly and logged back in with dispatch."

"Kids didn't get t'play with the siren t'day?" Starsky asked, just to keep Hutch on the line a little longer. On the TV screen he could see Melody Paterson describing the SWAT team's arrest of a single sniper but the camera wasn't recording any of that action. Instead Melody poked her red microphone into the face of a florid battalion chief to ask 'just a few questions'.

"We had to leave in a hurry, We're supposed to be assisting with crowd detail once we get across town," Hutch explained. "How're you doing? You alone? You want me to call anybody?"

"Oh, hey, I'm good," Starsky boasted with false confidence, but his natural good spirits were resurfacing now that he could hear Hutch's voice.

"Starsky," Hutch warned, he always did know when Starsky was lying. "Huggy could probably be over in a jiffy."

"No, I'm all involved with a project, the place is a mess. If you come back late it'll just give me more time to clean up."

"Don't over do."

"Nah," Starsky felt almost giddy, the pains in his chest forgotten. "I'm just gonna finish watching the soaps--see G.H. just came back on now that the sniper was caught, and then finish what I'm workin' on."

"See you later then," Hutch said, sounding reluctant but Starsky could hear the rookie calling Hutch back to the car. Probably had called from a payphone since dispatch must to be swamped with all the extra radio chatter related to the sniper.

"G'bye, Hutch." Starsky smiled fondly, hanging up. The Pillsbury Doughboy was dancing on the TV screen, extolling the virtues of his ready to cut and bake chocolate chip dough and Starsky began to wonder if he shouldn't have gone that route from the beginning. He poked tentatively at the dense batter in his blue bowl. The mixer still stank from the overheated motor, so he extracted the beaters from the dough, licking one absently. There had to be an easier way to finish this up. All that was really left was dumping the chocolate chips and nuts in, but the mixer had seen better days.

Still licking on his beater Starsky rechecked the recipe and turned on his oven to preheat. He'd gotten his second wind, weathered a bad patch and now was back on the road to cookie heaven. Delectable freshly baked chocolate chip cookies were only ten or so minutes away. Just the right thing to put Hutch in a better mood after a rotten afternoon of crowd control with the rookie in early September heat. Even with all the windows in the house open Starsky could feel the hot Santa Ana winds ruffling the curtains, and standing next to the rapidly warming stove was making him sweat.

Grabbing the chip package and a bag of nuts Starsky got comfortable on the couch to watch Luke Spencer and Laura Webber dance under the mirrored ball at the disco. By using a wooden spoon and surprisingly less arm power than was needed to plow the mixer through the dough he swirled the last ingredients in place. The resulting mixture looked good enough to eat, and reasoning that the batter had tasted good on the beater, Starsky decided to take a nice big spoonful of chip studded dough.

It was indeed quite tasty. He ended up having three spoonfuls, enjoying the contrast between the smooth creamy dough and the hard but velvety texture of the chocolate. This was great stuff if he said so himself, but unless he cooked up a batch or two soon there'd be none left for Hutch. So thinking, Starsky levered himself off the couch, again feeling the soreness of his muscles now that the adrenaline had worn off. Luckily, cookies bake relatively quickly and he had nearly three dozen cookies cooling on a rack by the time he was finished washing the dishes and sweeping the floor.

Well, score one for Mary Ellen, his occupational therapist. She might be annoyingly chirpy at times, but she was right about one thing. There was a distinct sense of satisfaction with the completion of an afternoon of baking. Maybe he'd be up to doing it again--some year, not just this one.

Although Christmas was only a few months away…and there was such a wealth of different cookies for the holidays; sugar cookies shaped like Santa and reindeer, those cute buttery ones designed like little trees, stars and bells that Edith Dobey made in green, yellow and red, and of course, the kind his Aunt Rose used to make that she called Russian Tea Cakes and the lady down the street from her called Mexican Wedding Cakes…Starsky just called the round crumbly pecan balls rolled in powdered sugar great. And not to mention gingerbread men…

With visions of snicker-doodles and shortbread dancing in his head Starsky lay down for an afternoon's nap.

"It smells great in here," Hutch's voice cut through the haze of Starsky's drowse, waking him instantly. "You baked?"

"Um," Starsky groaned, sitting up. He'd baked and probably overdone it. His chest muscles were protesting even that amount of movement. "Yeah, Mary Ellen said I should be doin' more independent stuff, like cooking."

"These're great," Hutch said with a mouthful of cookie.

"What time is it?" Starsky asked, suddenly aware that deep shadows darkened the living room. Hutch stood in the kitchen, his blond hair shining from the overhead light like the absent sun.

"Seven thirty, closer to eight, actually." Hutch selected another sweet treat. "Took forever for the lab crew to search the building where the guy had been shooting from. Rush hour traffic was more at a total stand still until we were able to get the barricades down and open up the street again."

"How're the two guys who got shot?"

"Both made it, thank God." Hutch scrubbed a big hand over his face, obviously not wanting be reminded of the similarities between a hot September afternoon and a muggy day in mid May. "Could have been a lot worse."

"That sicko have a motive for firing off a couple rounds at a police department?"

"I dunno, Starsk," Hutch shrugged, finishing off his snack. The expression on his face left no doubt that he didn't really want to discuss the shooting anymore. It was too personal, too close to the nightmares Starsky knew Hutch suffered from. "There anything else to eat besides cookies?" he asked hopefully.

"I didn't mean to sleep so long. I was going to start dinner."

"Starsk, if you slept that long, you needed it," Hutch eyed him critically. Starsky almost squirmed under the scrutiny. Hutch knew him too well and read his body language with ease. It was no use trying to hide anything from him. "You need a pain pill?" Hutch raised his eyebrows as if daring Starsky to lie about how much he hurt.

"Maybe just some aspirin?" he admitted ruefully.

"Comin' up," Hutch rummaged in the cupboard for the bottle of Bayer's and a glass for water. "How bout some scrambled eggs?"

"Well…" Starsky dutifully swallowed the white pills with a gulp of water.

"Starsky, you once told me never to let you talk me out of scrambled eggs again," Hutch reminded with a soft look on his face.

Blackmail, pure and simple, that's what it was. "I couldn't win against that argument if I tried, huh?" Starsky laughed. "Put some cheese on mine, add two slices of toast and you're on."

"Do I look like a short order cook?"

"As a matter of fact you do," Starsky laughed when Hutch donned a red checked apron emblazoned with the words 'Don't argue with the Cook'.

"Think you can handle two eggs?" Hutch cracked some into a bowl with a flip of his wrist chucking the shells into the sink.

"Yeah, sure. Hutch, you ever eat uncooked dough? It tastes nothing like the baked cookies."

"Of course it doesn't, Bozo, because it's raw."

"But it's good." Starsky twisted around to rest his chin on laced fingers, leaning his chest against the back of the couch to watch Hutch cook. The soft firmness of the couch cushions supported his aching body as he took long slow breaths. "I coulda eaten the whole bowl that way."

"Good way to get salmonella poisoning," Hutch popped bread in the toaster and turned on the gas flame under the cast iron skillet. He dropped in a pat of butter to coat the bottom of the pan and poured in the beaten eggs.

"Hey, this coming from a souper cop who once got botulism from drinking cold soup!" Starsky wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"World of difference there, Starsky, you just don't see it."

"I see you're trying to…" Starsky thought frantically for the word he'd read in the Reader's Digest build your vocabulary section while waiting for the dentist on Tuesday. "To cloud the issue and prevaricate."

"Trying to impress the jury with ten dollar words, counselor?" Hutch teased, sliding two plates laden with sunny yellow scrambled eggs and browned slices of toast dripping with butter onto the coffee table.

"Just calling it like I sees it, buddy," Starsky grinned, enjoying the repartee. For a short time this afternoon he'd glimpsed a tiny portion of the fear Hutch must have felt when he'd been gunned down. Terror, horror and the stark pain of losing someone close. But the crisis had been averted, for them at least. Somewhere in Bay City, families were grieving for their injured loved ones, but here in this little house there was warmth, happiness and healing. He'd made a batch of cookies. Big deal some would say, but he knew it was a step on the path to his return to the force. Just a baby step, but a sweet one. He couldn't have done it without Hutch, that much was certain, but his own ability to see the positive side of most things had kept him afloat through the worst times.

He'd come close to cashing in his chips a few months ago. The pain still lingered, and he had a long way to go before qualifying for the force again, but a few chocolate chips scattered on the road of life just made everything a whole lot sweeter.

It had been a good day to bake after all.

FIN