Christmas isn’t Christmas …

It was Christmas Eve. And the trap was set.

Other kids told me. But I didn’t believe them. So I decided to set a trap. A trap that would tell me beyond a shadow of a doubt … if Santa was real.

My plan was diabolically simple. I arranged the cookies, nicely on the tray. I painstaking wrote a note, letting Santa know that that all the cookies were his.

In my head, I figured that as long as Santa somehow touched that tray, I’d have his finger prints. Of course I didn’t work out the details of how to lift his finger prints … but I would figure something out.

I knew Santa couldn’t resist mom’s cookies. Everyone loved them.

The next morning, all was revealed. On the “Thank You for the cookies, they were delicious.” My mom’s distinctive hand-writing gave away Santa’s true identity.

I think about that when I hold up one of mom’s Christmas cookies.

But not this year.

This year, no visions of cookies dance in my head. For the first time I can remember, Christmas is cookie-less.

For some reason, my mom’s cookies make Christmas Christmas. The slight honey twang of the Christmas cookies always earns her compliments from anyone who eats them.

In California, each December, a package arrives at my door. A ziplock bag filled with cookies. Cookies I’d have to tuck away into a cabinet. Because if I had one, my willpower evaporates and the bag disappears in two days.

A number of years ago, mom bequeathed her Christmas cookie recipe to me. From the old Betty Crocker cookbook circa 1950. I immediately scanned it into my computer.

If I couldn’t be in Michigan for the holidays, I’d always try my hand at making those cookies. But they weren’t quite the same.

But I still ate them. Because Christmas isn’t Christmas without mom’s cookies.

On Christmas morning, I asked why there were none.

“Well, it’s hard for me to see.” Mom said. “I don’t know where I’m putting the cookie sheets.”

I hear the regret in her voice. Something she always loved to do. Making something people always loved to eat. While I may not understand why, I do understand drama. My mom fell victim to that this year. Thus no cookies.

I pull the recipe card up on my Mac. “I’ll make the cookies.”

“We’ll need honey.” She says. “I think the grocery store might be open.”

Now Christmas can be Christmas.

By |2018-12-26T18:18:58+00:00December 26th, 2018|Body, Impact of the Day|0 Comments

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