Christmas Cookie Baking
It's that time of year again. Right around Thanksgiving I begin to slowly kill myself baking cookies and quick breads for half of Missouri and Illinois. I don't know why I put myself through this torture - I'm not even sure anyone appreciates my efforts. One of my neighbors always sends over a small and delicious date nut bread and my aunt always makes a fantastic assortment of cookies and a snack mix.
Since no one in my husband's family does these bake-a-thons, maybe I feel like I need to carve out my own special spot in Christmas memories. Or maybe I just want to show-off.
When the cookie baking frenzy begins, my husband and two children (15 and 11) each have their appointed jobs. My 11-year-old daughter helps with the mixing, the rolling, and the cutting. She artfully arranges the raw cookies on the cookie sheet, disregarding the spacial demands of the cookie being baked. Christmas tree cut outs playfully dance on the cookie sheet - nine cookies when we could fit twelve. Leftover cookie dough vanishes while I am not looking.
My husband and my 15-year-old son each are the official cookie tasters. They take their jobs very seriously. There's a science to making Christmas cookies, you know. The future of Christmas hangs in balance with this process.
Once each batch is baked and placed on the cooling rack, my son stands over them, sniffing the aroma and carefully monitoring the cooling process. The moment the cookies are cool enough to handle (1.32.1794 minutes after removal from the oven), he picks up a cookie of his choice.
Close inspection entails the following:
- Browness levels on the bottom of the cookie - is it a golden brown or a light brown?
- Is the cookie the proper thickness?
- Number of crumbs - this is essential when considering dunking
- Exact amount of colored sugar sprinkles on the sugar cookie - this is the essence of flavor
- How many chocolate chips are visible on top?
Next, he feels the cookie for proper texture, shape, and weight. This is a skill handed down to him from his father who learned it from his father, and so on.
Once the cookie is popped in his mouth, the verdict is announced through bulging chipmunk cheeks, "rood oogie wom!" followed by a thumbs up signal. My son loves his job. My husband ambles in and snatches whatever cookies I don't manage to slap his hand away from. Crumbs and broken cookie pieces instantly find their fate is sealed when he grabs them off the table.
Of course, clean up is always left up to me. Everyone vanishes as soon as the oven is turned off. Three contented bellies have plopped down before the television while I fight with the remaining mess.
And then, I start dinner.
