Weekly Posting of the Conservative Cow Doctor

Christmas Cookies

The trophy wife promotes the communal baking of cookies whenever the grandkids gather. It is an all-hands-on deck event with each child seated at the kitchen island with their own egg, measuring device and mixing bowl. There could be four, eight or a dozen bakers and each one sits at attention until they are directed to crack their egg and begin mixing their ingredients. Once each bowl is properly stirred it is dumped in the big KitchenAid Mixer for mass production. The mini bakers then plop the batter on the cookie sheets in any shape they desire. They do get creative.

Once out of the oven, the cookies are cooled on the counter before being frosted. Sugar cookies were the holiday choice this past weekend and a simple dusting of colored sugar seemed too wimpy to granddaughter Nora. She mounded crushed candy canes, glitter beads, marshmallows and some bizarre sugar eyeballs into a mattress of colored frosting coating each cookie. I suspect there were 10,000 carb calories in each Christmas cookie and Nora asked me what I thought.

“If Santa eats that plate of cookies on Christmas Eve, he is going to fart sparkles all the way back to the North Pole where he will slide to a stop with type II diabetes,” I said making it sound as if those were good things. Giggling at the thought of Santa’s glittery backside, Nora heaped even more sprinkles on each Santa-shaped cookie.

The Keebler elves mass produce millions of cookies in the trunk of a hollow tree without leaving a mess, so their Nana must run a tighter ship. Our kitchen has concrete floors and quartz counter tops so had I installed vinyl cabinets and floor drains I could have cleaned the kitchen with a pressure washer. I will keep such a design in mind for our next kitchen.

When the last cookie was frosted and it was time for dinner, Nana announced each of the grandkids was to build their own personal-pan pizza. Shoving Santa cookies aside, each grandchild began building their prized pizza with Pilsbury biscuit dough, flour, tomato sauce, pepperoni, and cheese. I shook my head. I could necropsy a 1200-pound horse plus collect brain samples and make less of a mess than my grandkids cooking one personal pizza. I began walking in small circles, grumbling to myself and this brings me to my point. I have no point, I just needed to vent. Merry Christmas.