Faulty Memories and an Iconic Seasonal Character
(938 words, 4 minute read)
I was unprepared to make six and a half dozen cookies.
Marcus and I moved from Boston, MA, to Richmond, VA, at the end of October 2004. It took a couple of weeks for our PODS to arrive, and then there was Thanksgiving, setting up the apartment, and looking for a full-time job. But Marcus came home with an invitation from one of the senior associates at his firm, and I couldn’t say no. (i.e., It was important to make a good impression, and it was an opportunity to meet new people.)
I had never been to a cookie swap before. I came from New England, where you just showed up at a bar and drank during the holidays. If you did go to a house party, you were there to drink…. And, oh yeah, there might be some cookies. A cookie swap seemed so…civilized, and it was my induction into the world of the genteel domesticas (i.e., the suburban housewife.)
On the other hand, I was in my mid-30s and had only been married for a couple of years. I liked to cook and bake but didn’t have much time to devote between working and attending school full-time. Plus, I was always surrounded by men who didn’t need to be impressed by cookies.
But I put all these doubts aside and thought, I can do this. I helped my mom make cookies all the time. All I needed to do was figure out an easy but unusual recipe. So, I went to the handy dandy cookbook mom created for my sister and me and started looking. Most of the recipes were either too basic or too complicated. I guessed “basic” wouldn’t cut it, and I wasn’t sure I had the time or the energy to tackle the complicated ones.
Did I mention I needed to bring six and a half dozen?
Then, I came across a recipe called “Haystacks.” Oh yeah, I remembered these. Oatmeal, chocolate, raisins, and coconut are mixed together to form delicious bite-size treats. And the recipe was quick and no-bake. Win-win-win! (Side note: My mom’s recipes are pretty cryptic. They are a cross between being assigned a Mission Impossible quest and following scavenger hunt clues in a foreign language.)
I followed the directions, interpreting as I went, but I wasn’t getting a good feeling about the end product. I started to panic. I didn’t have enough time or money to start over, and I knew I couldn’t back out of going to the cookie swap. I had to go with what I had.
When Marcus saw the cookies, he stifled a laugh.
My Haystacks
“No, no. Go on, they are worthy of a good laugh.” I said as I stared at the cookies firming up on the wax paper. “I don’t remember them looking like this.”
What I had created were little piles of poo, like South Park’s Christmas Poo.
“What should I do?” I couldn’t go to this cookie swap with a bucket of poop, but that’s exactly what I had. I tried to disguise them by putting them in cupcake papers (like those tinned Swedish butter cookies) and sprinkling the tops with coconut. To me, it didn’t help. They now looked like little piles of poo with frost on them, or even worse, they resembled petrified poo.
Whatever. If we showed up late, people would already be drinking and not even notice….I hoped.
When we arrived, the party was in full swing. Multiple tables in multiple rooms throughout the house were stacked high with cookies. My first reaction was, holy shit, I am way out of my comfort zone. The hostess greeted us and directed us to the side porch to set up my cookies in one of the few remaining spots.
Set up my cookies?
You mean taking the top off my bin. Then, it all became too apparent. My soon-to-be tablemate was a lovely woman in her 60s frantically setting up a huge three-tiered display and placing little black top hats on her little perfectly sculpted marzipan-covered snowmen.
Did I mention six and a half dozen?
To say I had reservations about plopping down and exposing my frost-covered pieces of shit next to her was an understatement. While the other ladies were proudly hovering over displays that touted their domestic prowess, I opened the lid, sat a pile of copies of the cookie recipe in front of the container, and sought out real food and drink.
And as I tried to blend into the woodwork, I watched as the prejudging began. All the women walked around, inspecting the goods. Needless to say, this wasn’t just a friendly Sunday afternoon cookie swap. It was a highly competitive form of women peacocking. There were prizes to be won, damn it!
Then the taste testing started….by the men….only.
The Disney ending would be that all the men voted for my cookies, and I became the Belle of the Ball. The lovely ladies hoisted me onto their shoulders, and we did a victory lap around the house. But we all know that isn’t reality.
Surprisingly, most of the men liked my cookies. (Further evidence that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.) And the ladies, the ones picking which cookies to take home, were nice enough to take their share of mine, so I didn’t have to go home with six and a half dozen of the frost-covered piles of poo.
Lesson learned: Childhood memories might not always live up to adult reality.
And for the Iconic Seasonal Character, you thought I meant Santa. Ha Ha Ha!
Seasons Greetings Everyone.
