Home.

The cookie jar sits between the jars that hold the popping corn, and the breakfast cereal. Three jars away from the flour, and two down from the coffee. It's not the easiest jar to get to on the counter, being too far back, and obstructed by the dish rack, but somehow, everyone manages. The sound of the glass jar getting dragged against the tile counter, the click of the latch and you know, no matter where you are in the apartment, that some one's hand is digging for a cookie. The cookie jar - always kept full. Full cookie jars, that's how life should be. Full, not for a lack of eating, of taking in, of enjoying, but full because it's constantly being refilled. Maybe not always with the same kind of cookie - but how can you fault the chocolate chip? It's simple, and classic, but that's ok. I like predictability and I like cookie jars. That's not so bad is it? Just wanting to take in the sweetness, the joy, the familiar. The cookie jars are for children, for those who used to be children, for those who have children, and great grandchildren. It tells us stories of home, and of love, and of comfort, and of the familiar laughs with friends. The cookie - not pretentious, or pompous, it doesn't seek much attention. It is confidant and knows where it is needed. In beds with big comforters, and couches packed with blankets, and buffeted by pillows. The high heals, and the bow ties, those are for other desserts. It doesn't fault others for being fancy - it lets them take on the frills and the excitement. Sippers, lunch boxes, card games, camping, and movie watching; that's where the cookie is at home. You can dress it up, you can try and show it off - it won't stop you, but simply look at you and ask: "Why make me something I don't need to be?"