Growing up, there was one Christmas tradition that I both looked forward to and dreaded. That tradition was baking day. On that day my mother would round up all of us girls and send us to the kitchen for the day. Armed with a list of cookie recipes written out in my mother’s very neat handwriting; large amounts of flour, milk, eggs, and chocolate chips; and the Cooky Book; we set out to bake a literal mountain of cookies.
Snickerdoodles, chocolate chip, and sugar cookies always made the list. And were we to make just one batch? Heck no! We had to double, sometimes triple, every recipe we made up. Hours and hours later, we (and the kitchen) would be covered in flour, sticky with sugar, and have platter after platter full of cookies. The surfaces of multiple pieces of furniture groaned under the weight of all the cookies baked on that day. (Oddly enough this was way before my mother picked up the hobby of collecting cookie jars. I wonder if this yearly event led to it.)
I loved this tradition because it brought the family together and of course, there were cookies. I don’t like to brag but I do have a fairly large sweet-tooth. It was something we did every year. It lent a “sameness” to the season that was comforting and tied one Christmas to another.
I dreaded this tradition because after the first hour, my sisters and I got on each others nerves and sniped at each other. We (or at least I) got very tired of filling up tray after tray with cookies to go in the oven. The dough sticking to my fingers drove me crazy. I don’t know if I am not a fan of baking because of this or if it was always a part of my personality. All I know is that I wanted out of the kitchen and to get back to my book or my Barbies.
I will occasionally bake one thing or one batch of cookies (and by occasionally I mean about twice a year). I enjoy the fruits of my labor. Immensely. I also feel bad that I don’t bake with my kids more often.
Maybe this year I will start the tradition anew. After all, I can now send my kids in to bake and sit back and watch the flour fly from the comfort of my chair.
