Throughout my life, I have gone through many, many changes. I’ve gotten taller, gone through countless hair colors, developed different political and social opinions, but one thing that has never changed is my opinion of Lofthouse frosted sugar cookies. There is absolutely nothing better in this world than frosted sugar cookies.

The inch-thick, fluorescent frosting melts on your tongue, and the sprinkles add the perfect amount of crunch, but the best part- the cookie itself also melts in your mouth. How many cookies have you had that you can say melt in your mouth? They’re made of both baking soda and baking powder, along with sour cream, making them unbelievably soft, and eliminating the crumbly texture most other basic grocery store cookies have.

I still remember the first time I bit into one of these cookies. I was first introduced to them in the first grade, freshly after moving to the United States. But we don’t have Lofthouse cookies or really anything with that similar chalky taste in Pakistan, and the taste was incredibly foreign. Of course, a sugar laden cookie with a gratuitous amount of frosting would be appealing to any seven-year-old, but these were almost magical for me.

And, like many immigrants, I was a victim of bullying all throughout elementary and middle school in America. My first grade teacher always kept these cookies in her classroom, and would give me one whenever I skipped recess to stay inside because of the teasing. Given that I spent nearly two years in that classroom during recess, the cookies quickly became a source of comfort. Eventually it become bearable, dying down to just jokes about how I’m keeping bombs in my backpack, or “aren’t you supposed be wearing a curtain over your face?” And because it became tolerable, I decided to start going back outside during recess around third grade.

Huge mistake.

These boys from my class were playing tag, and I wanted to join in. But “tag” quickly turned into “chase the terrorist around the blacktop”, and eventually, “punch her in the stomach until a teacher runs over and tells you to stop.” After 30 minutes in the nurses office, I was sent back to class, and who was waiting for me at my desk? An entire box of Lofthouse cookies and a note from my first grade teacher. Even in middle school, when kids could think of jokes much more clever, I would just think back to elementary school and the quiet, sweet memories would override the bitter ones.

For a significant portion of my life, these cookies were the only thing keeping me together, much like the baking soda and powder keeps them intact in their cakey texture. I don’t have them nearly as often as I did when I was a child, but the few times that I do still take me back. I will defend them until I die, and if the afterlife prevails heaven for me, I’m sure I’ll be up there sharing a box with Mrs. Harland.