One of the mommies in the group I’m a part of posted a Pre-Thanksgiving Cookie Exchange on the mommies-message-board. I’m in, I thought immediately, even though I had no idea what a cookie exchange consisted of apart from the obvious: I get to have cookies—maybe lots and lots of cookies.
According to the message board, I was to bring one or more bag(s) containing 6 of my own cookies. Breezy!
T has been sleeping for longer periods at night due to a little tough love on our part. Thus, I’ve felt more awake lately. When I RSVP’d a big enthusiastic “yes” for the cookie exchange, I was sure I could make at least 3 dozen cookies if necessary. From scratch.
What I couldn’t account for was the nasty colds T and I picked up the week of the cookie exchange. Nor did I account for a lapse in his previously encouraging sleeping habit due to not feeling well: all that tough love out the window. Nor could I (as I languished on the king sized bed continually dominating our living room, nose on fire, baby passed out in his crib) remember the last time I made cookies from scratch. Too bad. Because it’s a lot of work for cookie-making-impaired types. Like me.
So I bought a box of Trader Joe’s gingerbread mix which also doubled as a cookie mix and started off the baking experience the night before the cookie exchange by adding an egg when I was supposed to: not add an egg. Then it hit me to add shredded coconut after the first batch of plain-jane cookies with oddly cakey centers came out of the oven. And then I added dried cranberries with orange flavoring which I had in the cupboard for my salad making ventures. Then I added powdered sugar. Then cinnamon and allspice. And my cookies taste okay. Better than okay, according to my husband (he’s a nice guy).
But they’re the ugliest cookies I’ve ever seen.
Like the bride of Frankenstein casting her eyes upon her groom for the first time, I freaked and immediately Googled “cookie exchange rules”. There are some pretty tough-nut mamas out there participating in these things each year. Very strict rules—like no pre-made cookie mixes. These mamas would label me a cheater for sure. And never allow cookies as ugly as mine in the exchange. They, like me, would run screaming from ugly cookies, or perhaps spray them with Raid. Speaking of labels (Cheater, Corners-Cutter, Maker Of Misshapen Cookies) we are short on them in this condo. But I scrounged up a sheet left over from a previous life in the 9 to 5 world:
Once T wakes up from his nap, we’re off to the cookie exchange at the park with our ugly cookies. I hope I’m not the only Cheater. And I hope I get to choose a few fresh bags of tasty cookies and not be disqualified and so return home shamed with only my own cookies in their stupid bags.
At least our colds are gone.