Season / Oven mitt / Truck
It was the season of making cookies, you know, cold in the street, heating in the house and not much sunlight anywhere. It was the most economical entertainment that we had. With a kilo of flour we could make a truck of lemon cookies. We could have set up a business, it would have been profitable.
That Saturday we were heating the oven to introduce the third round of the day, when I turned on the light of the appliance I saw it. Attached to the bottom wall, as if crying for help, was a failed cookie that had fallen from the previous tray, the dough had stuck and was starting to burn. Poor cookie, its destiny had been cut short by a technical failure.
I took a risk to save it from that hell, so that it wouldn’t flood the kitchen with a burnt smell, with such bad luck that I didn’t think of putting on my oven mitt.
This is the story of my biggest war scar. The sweetest war.