The Christmas Cookie Caper
by Pat Biasotti
On Humming “Deck the halls…” I sort through favorite cookie recipes. It’s Sunday evening a week before and my annual party, I sort through my cookie recipes. My “Christmas Cookie Exchange” is next Saturday afternoon. It’s a happy time My heart warms at the thought of this treasured tradition—when old girlfriends celebrate,come together to catch up on each other’s lives, bring out the kids’ pictures, and sample celebrate with cookies, spiked cider and Irish coffee. As Suddenly I hum “Deck The Halls,” I smile, thinking about this treasured tradition with old friends.
Sorting, I suddenly spy a photo of beautiful Christmas cookies and the recipe cut from a magazine. How luscious looking—raspberry red centers surrounded by a wreath of white powdered sugar. My mouth waters. I usually bake four or five dozen fast -and -easy drop cookies. However, these are so very Christmassy. I’ve never made this recipe. Would I dare try them? Rolled cookies, then cut out and sandwiched together, take lots more time. But what a smashing hit these would be!
Even then, a warning buzzer sounds in my brain. You know what happened the last time you tried cutting out sugar cookies. You don’t have time. Your boss’s big project could mean working overtime. Not all the cards are mailed. No gifts wrapped. (Nag, nag, nag,)
Then I remember my friend, Dede, who always turns up with some new and sensational cookie. Temptation tugs at me, these wreath cookies would be such a winner. Besides, the recipe makes four dozen. And I already have that round cookie cutter we used for making donuts. Aha. I thought, I’ll do Dede one better.
On Monday, I rush through my lunch hour to shop for the ingredients: pecans, extra flour, powdered sugar, butter, and raspberry jam. At home after dinner, I mix up the dough and stow it in the refrigerator. It has to chill, anyway. Tomorrow night I’ll finish the cookies. (Oh, you fool!)
However, before bedtime, I rummage through the box of cookie cutters. Now, where is that donut cutter? We used it all the time when the kids were small. It's in here somewhere. Nuts! I dump everything out on the table. No round, double cutter. Oh, well, for those cookies, I want a scalloped one. I’ll get one tomorrow.
Thus, on Tuesday, I skipped lunch and hit two kitchen stores. At the first, I’m told, “Sorry, we’re all out,” Then at number two, “No, we never had any like that.” I fume, what kind of kitchen store are they, anyway? No Christmas wreath cookie cutters? Any sane person would have gone home and made fast and easy drop cookies. Not me, I’m going to make those cookies if it kills me. Still downtown, I eat a fast-food dinner very fast. Then in desperation, I call my Sis. “Hey, do you have a wreath-shaped cookie cutter I can borrow? No? Try the craft store? Oh, I love you. Thanks.”
Hallelujah! Thirty minutes later, I pounce on a round, scalloped cutter ($1.75), the last one on the shelf. So far, so good, I think, but how am I going to cut the hole?” In a large display of cookie cutters, I spy a $5.98 set of graduated cutters for making flowers with one tiny scalloped cutter for centers. Six dollars to make one little hole? I am stupid, but desperate. Altogether, I shell out nearly eight dollars for special cookie cutters. I was still smarting from having to pay a premium price for two pounds of butter.
Later, at home and it is already after 9 o’clock when I get comfy in jeans, sweat shirt and wooly slippers, it’s after 9 o’clock. It takes me another fifteen minutes to hunt down the rolling pin and unearth my dough cloth. I flour the cloth and rolling pin, and then scoop out a fourth of the cold dough, hard as cement from overnight in the fridge. After kneading, it’s finally soft enough to roll. It starts sticking to the pin. More flour and eventually, the dough is rolled out to the required one-eighth inch. I dip the cutter in flour and cut my first circle. Yeech! The dough sticks to the cloth. I finally slice underneath with a steak knife and shake a lopsided cookie onto the baking sheet. The next one falls out of the cutter onto the floor. Six more tries and I finally get two decently shaped cookies. By now, the dough is too warm to cut. I scrape the rest of it off the cloth, throw the bowl into the fridge, and slam the door. There’s always tomorrow.
By Wednesday night, it’s two less than three days to PD-Day. However, I have all evening and I can envision my beautiful finished cookies. This time I carefully take out from the fridge only small dough batches at a time. I’m using lots of flour to keep the dough from sticking. The rolling pin is well floured. I am well floured. The floor is well floured. No matter, I think, I’ll clean tomorrow. I’ll decorate my tables Friday night. It takes forever to get two trays of cookies ready to bake. Into the heated oven they go. I carefully set the timer. Seventeen minutes later, it dings by the recipe. Ding, ding. Oh, no! I pull out two trays of very brown cookies. “I guess I moan, “The family gets these are for the family.” I moan.”!” Carefully, I cut out some more circles. Out of the oven, they come perfectly baked. A couple of minutes cooling, and I start removing them from the tray. EEK! They are so crisp, half of them break. Same with the next tray. I struggle on. It is past midnight. I am tired. I am frustrated. I have three-fourths of the dough baked and a bowl full of crumbs. I give up and snap off the kitchen light.
However, then in bed and half asleep, I suddenly bolt upright. I forgot to cut out centers from half the cookies! No way for the red raspberry filling to show through. I sobbed myself to sleep.
Early Thursday morning, I hurriedly mix up another half recipe of dough, thankful that I bought those two pounds of butter. Pulling on my coat to leave, I take one last look at that picture of perfect cookies, so perfectly beautiful. I utter several socially unacceptable words and storm out the door.
By that night, I’m very nervous, —less than forty-eight hours until my party. This time, I baked enough cookie rounds with cut-out centers to come out even. It’s time to put them together. I open the jar of raspberry jam. In my hurry, I bought raspberry preserves. The recipe calls for jam. More time wasted as I tediously sieve it. I had baked plenty of cookies. However, two dozen were overdone. Another dozen are quite browned, but I’ll hide that with the jam. Jam will also glue the broken ones. I sift powdered sugar over the cutout ones. Now in the last stretch, at 11 P.M., I start putting them together. Handling them, I break another dozen. I cry. I scream. I breathe thanks for sticky raspberry jam. By half past midnight, I stick the last two together.
Friday night is crunch time. Thank goodness I get home early. On the way, I pick up a pizza, hurry through dinner, then rush to clean the messy kitchen floor, the living and the dining room. Afterward, I put out the party dishes and holiday cloths; the rest will wait until morning. I don’t have enough cookies. At 10:30 P.M. I start making Cocoa Rum Balls from five ingredients with no baking. Two hours later, I place a plate of three dozen Rum Balls on the dining room table. Up front, there is a silver tray showing off twenty-three red-and-white Christmas wreath cookies. They look fabulous, patched cracks and all. On the other hand, I look terrible. I need an aspirin. I need sleep. I need Julia Childs. Before I turn out the light, there is one last thing; I dump that picture and recipe into the trash can and slam the lid.
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