Don’t Touch My Cookies

You can’t go anywhere this time of year in London without being offered a mince pie. They seem to be an essential ingredient for a proper UK Christmas, much like Christmas cookies are in the States. This year it was just me and Bing Crosby making gingerbread cookies in my kitchen. No little hands picking at the dough or heaping on the sprinkles. The cookies turned out exactly as I wanted. Yes, I miss having littles but (for as cliche as it sounds) the Christmas cookie making memories of years past that played through my mind warmed me. Even this rather horrific one…

Rachel Allord

*Don’t Touch My Cookies originally appeared in MomSense, November 2012.

I handed each of my children a lump of cookie dough and gave them carte blanche on cutting out and decorating. “But this,” I said, raising my own ball of dough like Scarlet O’Hara holing up a fistful of Tara, “this is mine.”

Maybe the picture-perfect cookies flaunting themselves on the cover of the magazines had brainwashed me but I felt determined to produce a collection of showcase cookies for when the family came on Christmas Day. Oh, I’d let people eat them of course. After my beauties had been sufficiently adored.

I  scattered cookie cutters on the table and helped the kids roll their dough. While they bickered over the snowman and the candy cane and the extraneous elephant (where did he come from?), I meticulously pressed out stars and bells. Only stars and bells. Those…

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