The holidays are filled with so many great ways to celebrate - lights outlining houses, wreaths on doors, and mistletoe dangling above the heads of those who want to smooch are some of my favorites. Perhaps the most delicious holiday tradition for most who celebrate Christmas is the making and sharing of cookies. I have seen some truly amazing cookies in the past few years - gingerbread men who look perfectly iced, light-as-air pizzelles, and even a few extraordinary Star Wars shaped cookies made with love by a true fan. They are all a symbol of the season, and after they're made, become yummy gifts for friends and family.
Last night, my parents arrived for the holiday weekend, and with them came the usual suspects: sugar cookies shaped like pink pointsettias and green trees, pizzelles, pumpkin bread, and the mother of all cookies - my mom's "chocolate chippers." I have been eating these cookies for nearly 40 years, every single Christmas of my life. I know exactly how much dough went into the cookie shooter for those pointsettias. I can almost smell the waffle iron as it heats up for the pizzelles. And those chocolate chip cookies - my favorite - replace sugar plums in all my dreams. I love these cookies.
When the cookies arrived in my house yesterday, I did something I have never done before. I pretended they were not there. I just acted casual when I walked past the boxes and bowls where they quietly waited... I didn't make eye contact, didn't pop open the lid to see which ones are inside, and didn't even ask about them. (I didn't have to - I knew exactly what was going on.) I found other things to look at, talk about, and focus on - all the while, those little lumps of perfection waiting in the corner for someone to take a bite. It just about killed me.
After we had prepared the turkey and stuffing for tomorrow (and by we, I mean my Mom and my sweet husband - I did nothing), eaten dinner (pizza for them, a shake for me), and introduced my parents to the magic that is Mexican Train Dominoes, my parents went back to their hotel, and I went into the kitchen to wash out the coffee pot and wipe down the counters. And there they were - two round cookie tins (plastic, but still...) and one box. I was alone with the cookies. I knew this is where it was goin' down.
Immediately, I started hearing the music from West Side Story in my head... there was going to be a showdown the likes of the Sharks and the Jets, but with less dancing. I just stared at the tins and the box, remembering that the pizzelles needed to have their foil taken off so they could breathe a bit... and I had to do it before I went to bed. I opened the box, and the smell of the almond extract immediately crawled up my face. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. So good. I unwrapped the foil, and found that they were already neatly wrapped in wax paper underneath. I was SAVED - I did not have to actually touch the pizzelles, and therefore, they were safe - and so was my blood sugar. I quickly put them in a tall container, still wrapped, and shoved it back under the cabinets - in the space that's dark and not so obvious to my now cookie-obsessed brain. Knowing my willpower was weakened, I took a wooden spoon out of the drawer and pushed the two plastic cookie tins back under the counters as well, into the dark space beside the pizzelles - I guess just touching the plastic would have been too much for me at that point, and the wooden spoon somehow was safer.
Then, I just stood there, staring at them. Three closed containers of cookies that I could not actually see, smell or taste were lurking there in the shadows, and I desperately wanted one. I could hear the angel on my left shoulder saying "you're doing so well on your diet, Niki - don't ruin all that hard work and progress over a cookie." Meanwhile, the devil on my right side was countering with "oh, go ahead. It's only once a year - and it's only one cookie." All this, peppered with West Side Story-esque snapping and a few "pows!" and "pops!" zipping through my mind - it was too much. I had to leave the kitchen.
When I finally went into the bedroom to change into my jammies, I was exhausted and had little beads of sweat along my hairline. How did that happen? Why did the mere thought of cookies get to me so? And how would I make it through the next few days when the cookies were actually OUT ON A PLATE?
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