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have to come out and see it.
    Since he is working on the kitchen table, it seems to him that the largest cookie he can make would be one as large as the table itself. But his mother points out that a cookie that big couldnot fit in the oven. So he settles for a rectangular cookie that covers the entire cookie pan.
    Every time his mother tries to help, the young chef snaps at her, “I can do that.” So his mother simply gives directions and says “Heaven help me” a lot while her intrepid son makes a mess of the kitchen. Flour and eggs fly everywhere. For weeks to come the family will feel the crunch of sugar grains underfoot.
    Finally, miraculously, the cookie gets baked. He snatches the quilted mitten and potholder from his mother—“I can do it myself ”—pulls the hot pan from the oven and sets it on the kitchen table. Impatient as always, he cannot wait for it to cool. He blows over the steaming cookie until he’s out of breath. He flaps his hands over it. At last the pan is cool enough to touch without the mitten.
    He runs next door with it. He rings the bell. Cherise opens the door.
    â€œHi, Donald.”
    â€œHi, Cherise. I made a welcome cookie for Andrew. It’s a snickerdoodle. I think if you put it on the floor and wait a little while, he’ll smell it and come out.”
    Zinkoff is utterly serious, but for some reason Cherise laughs. “Come on in,” she says. “Wait here.”
    Cherise leaves him standing in the living room. He hears whispery voices upstairs. Once he hears a sharp “No!” Then there are footsteps on the stairs, and here at last is Andrew Orwell walking toward him in his grumpy face and pajamas in the middle of the day.
    â€œHi,” Zinkoff says. “My name is Donald Zinkoff. I’m your neighbor. I made you a welcome cookie. It’s a snickerdoodle.”
    Andrew’s face perks up. He leans in to smell the cookie. He is hooked.
    Zinkoff reaches for the spatula his mother told him to bring along. A cookie is not really a cookie until it’s out of the pan and into the hand. He lays the pan on the floor. He pries the giant snickerdoodle from the sides and bottom of the pan. He lifts out the warm, soft, heavenly smelling welcome. He lifts it with both hands and holds it out to Andrew. As Andrew reaches for it, the panless, unsupported cookie collapses of its own weight and falls to the floor. Zinkoff isleft with a bite-size scrap in each hand.
    Andrew Orwell stares in horror at the floor. He screams, “My cookie!” He screams at Zinkoff. “You dropped it!” He runs screaming up the stairs. “I hate this place!”
    Zinkoff stuffs one scrap into his mouth, then the other. He gathers up the collapsed pieces from the floor and carries them home in the pan. He sits on the front step. Everybody who passes by that afternoon is offered a piece of cookie. In between, Zinkoff helps himself.
    By the time Clunker Four rattles up to the curb, the cookie is gone. As his father gets out of the car, Zinkoff runs to him, plunges his head into his father’s mailbag and throws up.
    Zinkoff was born with an upside-down valve in his stomach. This causes him to throw up several times a week. To Zinkoff, throwing up is almost as normal as breathing.
    But not to his father, who has brought his mailbag home with him in order to repair the strap. When Donald was an infant, Mr. Zinkoff was very good about changing diapers, but he has no stomach for vomit. He turns away, holds outthe bag and growls, “Take it to your mother.”
    Early on, Zinkoff’s mother impressed upon her son the etiquette of throwing up: That is, do not throw up at random, but throw up into something, preferably a toilet or bucket. Since toilets or buckets are not always handy, Zinkoff has learned to reach for the nearest container. Thus, at one time or other he has thrown up into soup bowls, flowerpots, wastebaskets, trash bins,