It was Christmas Eve. That’s a fancy way of me telling you this happened a few days ago, at least from this “as I’m writing” moment. My emotions were all over the place: incredulous, joyous, hopeful, unfathomably sad. One of my sons pointed out a somber fact. It was, so far as any of us could recall, the first time we had all been in my home, on Christmas, all together without anyone missing, since my daughter, Chynna, passed away. Fifteen years is too long to be apart on Christmas Eve. But, that’s the way our family is structured. We had someone in the military for 4 years who lived hours away for a decade. We had someone in college, now away at law school. We had someone who was apt to be called into job action at a moment’s notice. Two of our someone’s work on Christmas, more often than not. It’s the battle cry of a modern-day family. We were determined, this year, to make the most of every single minute. The beautiful sound of children was so loud at times, I resisted the temptation to cover my ears. There were gifts, jokes, and numerous instances one of us started a sentence with “remember that time.” That’s when one of the boys asked if everyone recalled the first time mom made sugar cookies. Laughter filled every crevice of my kitchen. I was not offended. I was elated. What mom doesn’t appreciate a teaching moment?
I love making cookies. The intricate designs are fun to research. The amazing scent that comes with the task cannot be rivaled by any candle. The way I get to check out from reality and melt into a series of podcasts is intoxicating. Yet, I don’t make cookies for money. This isn’t the right time. We are a multigenerational household living in modest quarters. I have no room for drying racks or gooseneck lighting or pico projectors on Arkon mounts. I have 3 dogs and 4 cats and 2 gregarious grandchildren. My days are full of writing and my nights are spent cajoling homework answers, aiding in dinner preparation, or making up good bedtime stories. Still, I am often asked for cookies. I shake my head as I explain the conversations to my husband. “They wanted 3 dozen cookies tomorrow!” I screech as I’m drying the dinner dishes. “Like, even if I could make cookies this week, how would I be able to make 36 in one day?” See, I am notoriously slow as a cookier. Cookier, while not recognized by Merriam-Webster, is the official term people who make sugar cookies like to be called. It’s a complicated process, as each layer must dry to a certain consistency before more icing can be added on top. Base layers need 3 hours before they can tolerate writing and 6-8 hours before they can accept a transfer, like piped roses. Flood consistency royal icing takes longer to set than piping consistency. Wet-onwet designs take extreme patience and fast hands as they must be applied and manipulated simultaneously, cookie by cookie. Cookies need safe places to dry. They need air circulation and low humidity. They are tiny canvases for individual masterpieces that many want, and few truly appreciate. Mostly, cookies need to taste good. I should know. I’ve been on this quest for over 10 years.
One of the only redeeming qualities of social media is how it preserves our memories. Granny that I am, I look forward to checking out what I was doing a year or 5 ago. I get to see happier days when my parents were still alive, and the grandchildren as cherub faced babies, so chubby they seemed to have rubber bands on their arms. Each morning, I click on the memories icon, knowing I will smile, laugh, and usually cry. It saddens me that memories from when my daughter was still here will never appear. She left us pre-Facebook, when the now defunct My Space was the only form of internet expression. My posthumous posts are the only ones to be found for her. But, the cookies live on in the land of memories. Sometimes they surface in gloriously edited photograph form.
Other times they are in video format with music accompaniment, like rose motif cookies with Ethel Merman belting “everything’s coming up roses” in the background. When you dig through the royal icing, one thing becomes apparent. I’ve improved.
My son pulled up a picture. I suppose I’d tagged him, way back in 2013. It had taken an entire year, but I’d finally figured out how to make the icing stay on the cookie. In a moment of shameful pride, I posted the picture with a series of hashtags including, but not limited to, #iamlegit, #cookier, and #cookieswag. The cookies looked AWFUL: uneven thicknesses of dough, off balanced circles of icing, and sprinkles unevenly dispersed with a heavy hand. In the words of my son, my 5-year-old grandson could do better. We howled with laughter. In front of us sat a tray of drop-dead gorgeous cookies in a winter scape pattern. There were cookies that looked like plaid ornaments with silver tops, cookies resembling paneled front doors with holly wreaths, cookies in the shape of wrapped gifts with ribbons and pine needles, and the star of the show – a flocked Christmas tree cookie I dusted with granular sugar to simulate fallen snow. It took Margaret Mitchell 10 years to write Gone with the Wind, and it took me 10 years to learn how to make cookies. The moral of the story is multitiered. Throw your grief into a seemingly impossible task and you’ll win doubly. Life is like hobby mastery – long and laborious yet full of joy. And finally, never give up because so much can happen in ten years. There is beauty in suffering, and art in cookies.
- Log in or Subscribe to post comments.