A Christmas Love Letter
Grandma, Sassy and I made Christmas cookies today. We didn’t finish, but we got a heck of a start. The best part is that we didn’t burn any and then have to argue over divvying them up.
But today’s activities reminded me of another Christmas that didn’t go so smoothly.
That year, My Mom and I must have been hexed because everything burned, came out flat, fell apart, or just plain fell. It was a miserable baking day. I came home that night with a zillion, naked, cut out cookies. The kids got it in their heads that they MUST be frosted and their hateful father supported them in this desire. Begrudgingly, I agreed to make colored frosting and we all decorated the angles and trains and stars, etc. It took forever and I was completely fed up with baking all together by the end of it.
When they were all beautifully decorated I placed them all in ziplock bags and laid the bags in the oven for safe keeping from the dogs. At that time, we had REALLY large dogs. Much bigger dogs than Roscoe will ever be. We had a Newfoundland named Sophie and a Rottweiler/Great Dane/St. Bernard mix named Hugh. Sophie was 185 lbs at her biggest
and Hugh was tall enough to steal food off the kitchen counter by merely turning his head. In fact, he ate an entire fillet Mignon one Valentine’s Day.
The next evening was my turn to make dinner. For quite some time I couldn’t figure out what smelled so awful until I realized that the blasted plastic bags full of cookies were preheating in the oven. When I opened the oven door, the plastic was dripping off the rack and onto the heating element and the cookies were coated in a layer of plastic.
My Honey came running into the kitchen at the sound of my screams and a 4 year old Sassy came running after him. I stood there sobbing at the loss of the cookies. I took it very hard. After all the work and how everything had turned out so badly.
My Honey jumped into action, trying to save the day. I just stood there weeping piteously and Sassy, getting right into the spirit of the holiday, stood at the oven door and screamed at me, “You burned the cookies! YOU RUINED CHRISTMAS!”
I swear it’s true. I have witnesses.
God bless My Honey. He put the kids to bed that night and stayed up with me until 2 or 3 that morning. We rolled out dough, cut out the cookies, baked them. And then he frosted every single one of those freaking cookies. And no one had to die that Christmas. He’s a good man, My Honey is.