Cantankerously Yours
Why Karen Gets a Valentine, in spite of Everything.
By Wendell Abern
Dear Fellow Romantics,
If you’re wondering why you’re looking at a photo of Christmas cookies in an issue devoted to Valentine’s Day, blame it on Karen.
Please don’t misunderstand. I love Karen. I consider Karen and Gary (her husband) very dear friends.
However, when Karen, major-domo of our annual Christmas party at River of Grass (my Unitarian Universalist congregation), asked for volunteer cookie makers, I jumped right in. Karen said, “Oh, good! We need Christmas cookies.”
“I’ve never made Christmas cookies,” I said. “I’m going to bring oatmeal raisin. Just like my mommy made every Chanukkah.”
“But this is your chance to make your first Christmas cookies!” Karen said. “Think of it as a challenge.”
“What, challenge? Jennifer Lopez, now there’s a cookie that’s a challenge.”
“Listen. There’s nothing easier than Christmas cookies. My fifth-graders are making some for our class.”
Karen had said the magic word: easy.
Truth is, I remember neighbors’ kids making angel- and reindeer-shaped cookies. Young kids. Easy peasy, right?
That night, I decided to surprise Karen, told her I was bringing Heathen Cookies, then looked up Christmas cookies on “Cooks dot com.” I printed out the instructions. As I read through three pages of margin-to-margin six-point type, wondering if I really needed parchment paper, I came to “ … then cover the dough, put it in the refrigerator and keep overnight.”
What? Overnight? I make oatmeal raisin cookies in eleven minutes!
Silently cursing Karen, I decided to call my friend, Lou the Curmudgeon, who lives in Chicago. Lou knows the answer to everything, and even though he no longer hears well, I still seek his counsel on everything.
“What is this overnight nonsense?” I shouted, after explaining my dilemma.
“She starts grad school next month,” Lou said.
“No, Lou, I didn’t ask about your granddaughter. What about these cookies that are so easy to make?”
“Go to the store. Buy a mix.”
Of course! Somehow, the more obvious a solution is to any given problem, the less likely I am to think of it.
Anyway, the next day I bought a box of Betty Crocker sugar cookie mix and three Christmas cookie cut-outs. After my morning cigar at the condo’s pool, I ambled home to make my cookies. Piece of cake, I chuckled to myself, deliberately mixing baking metaphors.
Following the instructions carefully, I spread out wax paper and sprinkled some flour onto it. Then came, “Now roll out the dough to one-quarter of an inch thick.”
No rolling pin.
Spying a half-filled bottle of wine that had been perched on my refrigerator for three months, I plucked it and began rolling the dough to the required thickness.
All was proceeding splendidly until I noticed the cap to the wine had not been screwed on tightly, and I was dripping wine all over the dough and onto my kitchen floor.
I now had a headache, a ruined batch of cookie dough and a kitchen that smelled like a French brothel.
Cursing Karen and her fifth-graders, I threw everything out and stomped back to the pool to have my afternoon cigar, even though it was only eleven in the morning.
The next day, after fumigating my kitchen, I went back to Publix, bought another box of Betty Crocker mix, a rolling pin and three tiny bottles of cookie sprinkles. Again, following instructions explicitly, and armed with a rolling pin, I spread the dough on the floured wax paper to one-quarter inch thick.
Then came the fun part! The cut-outs! I deftly cut out Christmas trees, Santa Clauses and angels, slid my spatula under them and scattered them onto my cookie sheets, then popped them into the oven. Everything was running smoothly.
Until I smelled smoke.
I hadn’t noticed that some of the wax paper had adhered to the bottom of several cookies and caught on fire, creating a minor blaze inside my oven.
I grabbed a dish towel, fanning frantically. I had to throw out the burnt cookies and three of the four cookie sheets (badly scorched). I went back to Publix to buy another box of mix, new cookie sheets and some parchment paper. When I came home, I went to the pool and had a second afternoon cigar.
The next day, I did everything by the book. Rolled the dough carefully onto my parchment paper; cut out Santa Clauses, trees and angels; nimbly wedged the spatula under the cookie shapes and slid them onto my cookie sheets.
Perfection! Except for the one angel that looked like a Sumo wrestler.
I waited a short while, then scattered colored sprinkles onto my newly-baked cookies. They slid off. I tried pushing a small indentation into some cookies to create a space for sprinkles, and succeeded in breaking three of them.
I gave strong consideration to calling the police and reporting Karen for inflicting cruel and unusual punishment on a novice cookie-maker. Instead, I looked it up on the Internet.
And there was the answer! Heat a quarter-cup of milk for 15 seconds in the Microwave; then dip a pastry brush into the milk, coat the cookies and pour on the sprinkles. Easy as pie! I thought, amusing myself with yet another mixed metaphor.
That night, I brought my cookies to River of Grass, pulled Karen aside and whipped off the paper towel covering them.
“You made real Christmas cookies!” Karen said. “We have to take a picture of you with them!”
Which is why they appear in this Valentine’s Day issue.
Then Karen said, “Now tell me the truth. Wasn’t that easy?”
Resisting the urge to flatten her, I said, “Nothing to it.”
“And next year it’ll be even easier,” she smiled.
I kissed her on the cheek, thinking to myself … she really didn’t do anything wrong. And she’s also that rarest of all commodities: a genuinely kind human being. And in spite of everything, I’ll send her a valentine this year.
However, next Christmas she gets gruel.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at dendyabern@comcast.net.