A Small Victory

Remember my older post about the stress of holiday baking? My whole Little Red Hen analogy? Yes?

Christmas baking has begun. I have made holiday hermits, which are a fruit cake like cookie and Pfeffernusse, which is a German spice cookie.

Pfeffernusse is my favorite because they look like they're really tasty to little kids. Because they are covered in powdered sugar, kids will grab the Pfeffernusse first. But they are a dense, spicy cookie. I have always enjoyed the look of utter disgust when they realize their mistake.

My brother and I used to be the same way when we went to our Aunt's house for Christmas eve. Tradition!

Nowadays, I usually try to warn kids because I like the cookies. A plate of cookies that have been bitten into and then put back is not a good thing. Especially when it's me that makes them.

My kids like them this year of course. That sucks. Less cookies for me in the end.

So this Friday, I will be really ramping up the cookie production. I'm thinking that because of the way I organized things, B and I may be able to side step our annual "cookie fight". Which is about the lack of help I get when baking the Goddamn Christmas cookies (as I usually call them after batch #5).

On Saturday, B took the kids to "Breakfast with Santa" at the school. B enjoyed himself a lot more this year as there were more people he knew to talk to.

He was talking to a friend of mine, who was talking to B about the granola I make. B, who loves to give me shit about all of the things I like to make, just had to say, "Cindy likes to make things that you could otherwise buy at the store." To which he and the friend had a laugh and he went on to say something about how it's more about the process for me blah blah blah. I believe this was an attempt to save face in some way.

I looked up from the paper I was reading. (Oh yes, did I mention that this conversation had begun because I had just sat down on Sunday morning? B can't just leave me be with a moment to myself.).

I replied with, "Oh yeah..Just like those Christmas cookies that I make for everyone at your work that you could otherwise buy at the store."

B paused for a moment and said, "Good point."

I leapt from my seat, raised my arms above my head like Rocky Balboa and danced around the kitchen saying, "Yes!" I ended my victory lap by slapping the table and sticking both of my middle fingers in his face.

Then I sat back down and went back to reading the paper.

There were a few other bright moments of our Sunday morning talk where I accused him of being a Momma's boy and of doing certain obscene things, but I guess I'll keep that between the two of us.

Just for the record, I actually look forward to B coming to bug when when I'm reading the paper. It always seems to end with the both of us folded in half clutching our stomachs in pain because we are laughing so hard.

It's for reasons like this that I am happy to make him his fucking cookies.

Just don't tell him that.