I was sticky from sugar, powdered with flour, and my fingertips were burned. But I baked on.
Our bedroom floor was covered under Things That Needed To Be Picked Up, we had significant piles of laundry forming next to the washer, and Christmas presents needed to be finished. But I baked on.
The cats meowed at me constantly, desperate for some love and attention, wanting only to sit on my lap for a few minutes...but I baked on.
Okay, fine. This didn't really happen. They were sleeping, completely ignorant to the fact that I wasn't there with them. But I imagined that my preoccupation with cookies was noticed by them all the same.
Anyway, I baked my heart out...and slowly but surely I started seeing the fruits of my labor. Dozens and dozens of cookies. Cranberry pecan noels, sugar cookies, molasses cookies, Russian tea cakes, oatmeal raisin cookies, and lime meltaways.
This morning, we put them on plates for distribution. Neighbors, coworkers, and friends got a plateful of sugary, buttery love. And what better kind of love is there to give?
And remember how I said I never wanted to bake again? It was nothing a little bit of sleep couldn't cure. This morning, after almost fainting when I rediscovered the huge number of cookie-related dishes in the sink, I looked at a pile of overripe bananas on our table and thought how much better they would be baked in a bread.
This, to me, indicates that I'm cured. And that we have a tradition in the making.
Love, T.
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