“Are you making Christmas cookies again this year?” my hubby asked as we drove home from a lovely dinner out with friends. I was suffering from more than a little bit of “marguerita buzz” and too tired to think about, or commit to such an undertaking. I ignored the question, hoping my own personal cookie monster would take the hint.
He didn’t and persisted. “I remember all the wonderful cookies your mother made during the holiday season, and I was thinking you could continue the tradition since she’s passed. Didn’t she make something like 100 different kinds each year? It was her shining moment and everyone in the family loved those cookies. I especially liked the miniature fruitcakes with brandy - they were my favorite. Maybe you could make a double batch of those.”
We arrived home just in time to avoid a “discussion” on just how much work cookie baking involves. Escaping to the bedroom, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, visions of sugar plums, and hitting my hubby over the head with my grandmother’s rolling pin, dancing in my head.
Sometime around midnight, I stirred as a noise came from the direction of the kitchen. Walking gingerly down the hallway to check, I saw the kitchen light on. Mixing bowls, measuring cups, spoons and cookie sheets covered the kitchen island along with flour, eggs, sugar and vanilla. It appeared there was some serious baking going on. But who was doing it?
I was startled when a shadowy figure came into view. Standing by the oven, setting the temperature to a precise 350 degrees, was my mother. Her face was smudged with flour, and she was wearing the apron I remembered from my childhood.
“Mom,” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be - well - dead?”
“What, you think can get rid of me that easily?” she snapped. “I may be gone, but I still know how to make a darned good cookie.”
Stunned, I didn’t know what to say. I was having a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that she had somehow come back from the great beyond and was standing in the middle of my kitchen.
“Ok, let’s get busy” she said, interrupting my stupor. “I don’t have all night you know. I got a special pass from St. Peter just to come down and give you a hand for a few hours. Let’s not waste time.”
She put me to work, barking orders to sift flour, crack eggs and measure sugar and vanilla. I chopped nuts and washed all the dirty bowls and utensils. Mom worked her magic; a fresh batch of cookies leapt out of the oven every thirty seconds. As the first light of dawn approached, we had done it. One hundred varieties of cookies, neatly sorted into tins for every family member and friend.
With a wink and a nod to me, my mother began to slowly fade. “Wait! Before you go, could you give me a few tips so I can do this by myself next time?”
“Sure, it’s easy. Begin by sorting through at least 1000 recipes; choose only ones that are sure to be a hit. Buy bulk ingredients and set up an assembly line from mixer to refrigerator, baking sheet to oven and then out to cool. Be sure to sigh and complain a lot while you’re baking. Everyone should know how hard you are working.”
With that, she vanished. I never thought I would appreciate my mom as much as I did in that moment. Going back to bed, I hoped that I could continue in the same tradition.
A few hours later, I felt my hubby’s gentle nudge. “Hey, hon, wake up. Coffee’s ready. Let’s go watch the news and have some of those fresh-baked Christmas cookies I found in the kitchen. Some are still warm!
I climbed out from under the covers, smiling at the lovely dream I’d had. “Sure honey, I’ll be right there. Just as soon as I take these oven mitts off.”
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