I lay in my bed early one frosty December morning, savoring the fact that I didn’t have to get up just yet. It was cookie day, the one day of the school year that my mom allowed me to stay home from school, even though I was perfectly well. Mom and I would spend the whole day in our cozy, warm kitchen, baking dozens of Christmas cookies, making plans for the holiday, and talking about everything that was going on in my young life. If we were lucky, we’d even get some snow in the afternoon. By the time my dad got home that night, we’d be exhausted, and covered in flour, sprinkles and bits of nuts, but the whole house would smell delicious, and we’d have all the Christmas cookies baked and packaged for giving to neighbors and friends.
I could hear my mom opening and closing cupboards, assembling all the things we would need for our baking frenzy. Breakfast would be cold cereal today, we didn’t want to waste time on a hot breakfast, we had cookies to bake! My mind wandered, and I thought of all the lovely recipes there were to choose from. Sugar cookies, cream cheese wreaths, Snickerdoodles, drop cookies, Linzer tarts, and my favorite, painted cookies.
“Mom! Hey, Mom!” The voices of my young sons shook me out of my daydream. “We have our aprons on Mom, and we washed our hands. Can we get started? Huh? Is it time to start cookie day? Is it?” I smiled down into their little faces, and hoped that someday, they’d keep their own children home from school, and make their own cookie day memories.