The first time I realized my grandma was truly aging was when she asked me to open a jar for her. I knew her hands had been giving her trouble, but seeing it myself was different. Those hands had worked for decades. The wrinkles, the swollen knuckles, the lines all told a story. I twisted the lid off easily while she explained how they just didn’t work like they used to. What she didn’t know was that she didn’t owe me an explanation. Her hands had given enough. I only wished I could take her pain away along with that jar.
We were blesses kids to grow up with a Grandma Lucy. She was under five feet tall but her presence filled a room. She lived in Buffalo, New York, on the end floor of a row house. Visiting her meant walking everywhere because she never drove. If she had to go far, she’d catch a bus or a ride, but most of the time we walked together.
We’d stop for money to put in the church box, run errands at the butcher or the bagel shop, and head to Mass every single morning. Nothing disrupted her routine. I never felt unsafe with her. She moved fast and led with confidence.
Inside her house, food always waited. Just like every tiny Italian grandma you imagine, she always had something to offer. My favorite memories are of the counters lined with baked goods. Chocolate chip cookies, zucchini bread, pound cakes, coffee cakes, chocolate cakes, you name it, she baked it.
Her father, my great-grandpa, had been a pastry chef, and though I never tasted his creations, I heard stories about them, especially the wedding cake he made for my grandma that was as tall as she was. Baking was in her blood, and she passed it down to us.
Even when we moved from New York to Missouri, her baking connected us. Every Christmas she sent us a box of Italian cookies. I can still remember opening that package and smelling sugar, butter, and anise, with a hint of her house. What a gift it was to grow up with her love wrapped in every bite.
Years later, while browsing Etsy for a gift, I suddenly thought, “People make things and just sell them?” That night, CookieShmookie was born. I don’t know why I chose cookies or why I started a business with two kids and two dogs at home, but it felt like a calling. I started small, posting on Facebook. To my surprise, orders came in right away. I had no business plan, no experience, and hardly any tools. But I had one thing, Grandma Lucy’s cookie recipe. The one my mom used for Christmas, the one everyone loved. And it worked.
When I told Grandma about my new business, she encouraged me with such warmth that I almost believed I could open a storefront the next day. But she also surprised me. She declared that baking cookies was hard work. All those years I had walked into her home filled with sweets, I never thought of the effort behind it. Suddenly I realized she baked for us not because it was easy, but because she loved us. That realization has stayed with me and shaped how I approach baking even now.
We often talked about my cookies, and I mailed her photos since she didn’t have Facebook or a smartphone. Once she even sent me an envelope stuffed with her own recipes and a note I still treasure. Her encouragement was priceless.
Before she passed, my parents brought me her old cookie jar. Inside were cookies baked by my great-grandfather in 1962, saved all these years. That jar sits in my kitchen now, a reminder of the history and love that guide me.
CookieShmookie ran for several years, but after my third baby arrived, I had to step back. Around that same time, Grandma passed away at 92. I was thankful my youngest, though only four months old, got to be in her Buffalo home once, bounded by those familiar smells and voices.
Two years later, my aunt sent me another box of Grandma’s recipes. Holding those discolored and faded cards felt like holding a piece of her. At the same time, I felt ready for a new direction. My sister suggested the name Lucille Baking Co., and it fit perfectly. These recipes weren’t just mine, they were hers.
Grandma Lucy would have laughed at the idea of a bakery with her name on it. She would have wanted new pictures mailed, and she would have harassed me about my small kitchen. Even without her here, I feel her with me in every batch I bake. The 1962 cookies above my cabinets, the recipes in her handwriting, and her memory keep me moving forward.
As long as my hands stay strong, I’ll carry her legacy. She was a force, and I’m grateful every day I had the gift of growing up with Grandma Lucy.
