A Bit of Christmas Suffering

My hand is bleeding, and it is gross. Two nice cracks down the side thanks to a tradition of suffering. It is a strange sort of suffering though, because I like it. My body doesn’t, but I do. It sounds a bit like an addiction put in those terms, but it is only once a year, so I don’t think it qualifies.

Sometime in the next week the odds are good that you will be gifted a box of Christmas cookies—homemade Christmas cookies. And I’m not talking about those pretend homemade ones made from an over-sized poop shaped log, and then sliced and baked. No, I’m talking the real deal. The flour splatter. The six pounds of butter used up in twenty-four hours. The bloody hands.

I’m talking about that variety of colors and shapes and textures that can make a cookie tin proud. The kind that come from recipes with recognizable ingredients. The kind that taste like love with every bite. If you get those, then you know you are loved on some level.

I give out my love to select people at the end of every year, and all you have to do to receive it is to have given me love that year. Simple—don’t be a jerk, get cookies. It is a family tradition that is deeply ingrained in me, like the flour on my shirt. The tradition is so deeply ingrained that there is no way I’d go back on it, even after evaluating the required blood, sweat, and tears.

First, blood. In the marathon annual cookie baking event that has been taking place in my kitchen for the past twenty-four hours, I have washed my hands approximately 48 times. That might be an exaggeration, because I have absolutely no idea, but it seems like a reasonable estimate. As a result, my hands are cracking open. Fortunately they began to do so after I finished, so I am not giving my friends my blood in addition to my love. Let’s not get too symbolic. I also burned my finger, but I have nine more, so all is well.

Next, sweat. Figuratively, because it was a pleasant sixty degrees outside most of the day. Do you know how long it takes to make twelve batches of very involved cookies? Maybe twelve doesn’t sound like that much. Twelve times the flour fluttered around the house. Twelve times I smeared butter on my shirt. Twelve times I washed all the dishes required for the recipe. This is a deeply ingrained tradition, I don’t want to hear what you outsiders think on the matter.

“Honey, you could just buy them at the store…”
“We do not buy oversized poop shaped logs! We are not those kind of people! We make real food in this house, dammit!”
Husband puts cookie in his mouth and walks away, seeming satisfied.

Then, tears. What if your back is aching and you can’t operate in the kitchen for all the open packages of ingredients all over the counters, and you can’t find that damn measuring cup again, you just burned your finger, you think your hands are starting to crack, and then…you screw up the fudge. You could cry. Or, you could eat a bunch of it and call it fate.

Blood, sweat, and tears. Yep, that’s in your cookies. Figuratively anyway, at least in my case—who knows what’s in your cookies.