Christmas has always been the hands-down winner of the My Favorite Holiday vote. I’ve loved everything about it for as long as I can remember (except for the real-tree-fire-hazards of my early childhood).
When I was small, there would always come a day in the endless set of days between Thanksgiving and Christmas when my mom would pull out her big old Mixmaster. She would announce that today we were going to bake cookies, and my sister’s and my eyes would light up with happiness. The first job was to mix up her renowned sour cream sugar cookies. That dough had to chill for what seemed like hours until it was stiff enough to roll out. So after the dough was deposited in the refrigerator and covered with a dish towel, we got to work making “Spritz” butter cookies. My sister and I, decked out in matching aprons made by our grandmother, traded off cracking the eggs, being careful not to massacre the shell or lose any of the unwanted egg white in the bowl of ingredients, lest our mother (the perfectionist) decide we were too young to be trusted with the job. We watched intently as she loaded the pastry tube with the yellow dough and perfectly pressed out wreaths and trees and poinsettias. If we promised to be neat, we got to carefully sprinkle the red and green sugars (no such thing as blue and purple and pink back then) on her creations, and press little cinnamon rounds where a wreath bow or tree star or poinsettia cyathium belonged. It was then that I decided that cinnamon was my absolute favorite flavor, and I probably snuck more than I planted in place.
Those delicious cookies baked quickly so we didn’t have to delay gratification too long to get the first yummy bite of Christmas. Then it would be lunch time, and after that we’d pepper her with constant teasing, “Is the dough ready yet?” until finally – finally – she’d declare it firm enough, and the real fun began. She’d get out her pastry cloth and flour it lightly, encase the old wooden rolling pin in its cloth, and deftly roll out the dough. My sister and I got to cut out the cookies – trees and stars and bells and Santas – and place them carefully on the cookie sheets, being mindful not to alter their shape with our small and sometimes clumsy hands. The best part was after they were baked, when mom mixed confectionary sugar, butter, and a little bit of milk into frosting. The privilege of frosting the cookies was always hers and she did it perfectly, carefully moving the frosting from the middle out to the edges, as neat as can be. Once the frosting was completed, she’d set it down and then my sister and I got to decorate again. This time, in addition to the red and green, we had yellow sugar and chocolate & multi-color “jimmies”, red cinnamon rounds, and silver balls to create our masterpieces. We still had to be neat about it. My mom was very particular – trees had to be green (though a little red as an accent was ok) and stars had to be yellow, and I guess she wasn’t fussy about the bells or Santas.
I still remember the first time I nervously frosted a cookie myself – I was probably about 12 or 13 – and I was determined that it would look as perfect as my mom’s beautiful creations.
Mom’s cookies gradually developed a following outside of her immediate family. Everyone loved them and she never failed to deliver. When she was sick with cancer and the holidays were approaching, she made cookies on her better days and froze them so she’d have them when she wanted to start giving them away. After she passed away in January 2006, cleaning out her freezer, I uncovered a Tupperware container filled with bells and stars. I brought them home with me and put them in my freezer. Along with them came a couple of pie crusts and a cool whip container filled with her chicken stock. For almost five years, I dodged them as other things came and went in the freezer.
This year at Thanksgiving, with family coming for the first time for the holiday in New York
The cookies were left. I argued with myself – these are FIVE YEARS old. You’ll make more. These can’t be any good. Stop being so sentimental. You’ll make more. You’ll make more. You’ll make more.
I stood there alone in my kitchen. Nobody else was around to urge me one way or another. I remembered walking into mom’s kitchen every other weekend during almost the entire last year of her life. Though she was usually lying on the couch in the living room when I arrived, exhausted from chemo and the effort to keep the house and everything going for my brother, the kitchen counter almost always held her large round Tupperware container filled with frosted, decorated sour cream cookies just for me because I loved them. Those cookies were an ongoing act of mother-love. The evidence sat on my shelf. They still connect me with her.
I put the cookies back in the freezer.
