somepinkflowers

how to use wild things as an excuse for practically anything

If there is anything better tasting in the whole wide world than home~made sugar cookies, please let me know.

I am talking Home~Made sugar cookies. The kind with Real Butter and White Flour and Granulated Sugar. All those frowned upon ingredients.

THAT kind of sugar cookie.

I mean to say, the kind of  home~made sugar cookie where I will taste the raw dough even if the recipe calls for One Uncooked Egg.

Normally I do not throw caution to the wind when it comes to eating Uncooked Eggs but I live for the exception to the rule these days.

Times are tough all over the place and worrying about swallowing a smidgen of Uncooked Egg in home~made sugar cookie dough is not going to keep me up at night.

I don't think.

But you decide for yourself.

Anyway. This was my first Christmas ever where I did not make sugar cookies. First ever in about 30 years.

I did not even get out my secret family recipe, did not even buy the required unsalted sticks of butter, did not gather and play with my collection of cookie cutters.

Nada. Zip. Nothing sugar cookie-ish happened in my kitchen.

Carol was the first to bring up the subject.

"Well, I know you have been busy with your dad lately, somepinkflowers," my dear friend began, the understanding tone floating to the top of her voice like cream, "but my daughter will be here from Dallas next week and you know how she loves your home~made sugar cookies."

"Oh, I am not making sugar cookies this Christmas," I explained. "My Spare Time has not yet arrived and my kitchen table is over~run with wild things."

"Just step inside my kitchen and you will see," I continued, Holding My Ground.

Carol popped in later bringing a holiday tin filled with home~made rum balls.

What a friend!

We lit the candles, watched the wild things dance around the kitchen table and ate rum~ball after rum~ball after rum~ball.

After a bit we did not give a fig for sugar cookies.

A few days later my neighbor, Buddy, dropped in.

He sniffed around my kitchen, opened this cabinet and that drawer. Looking for one of these he examined the pantry. He gazed about the counter tops. He stood askance in front of the open refrigerator door.

Well, you know where this is going.

"Hey, somepinnkflowers, where are your sugar cookies," Buddy asked, lifting the milk carton, judging the weight for fullness. "Are mine in a box under your tree?"

"Let's crack that package open right now," he continued. The milk carton now resting on the counter in sweet anticipation.

In Buddy's defense, I had trained him to expect a cookie stash ever year during the holidays.

{{ It was by my own hand that Buddy learned to go ferreting for treats in this very kitchen so do not judge him too harshly. If you lived nearby, I might have trained you thus. }}

When I explained about the not~yet~arrived Spare Time and the wild things living on my kitchen table, Buddy was so embarrassed he rang up for a Delivered Pizza.

Vegetarian. With extra cheese. Ummm mm.

We lit the candles, watched the wild things dance around the kitchen table and ate slice after slice of veggie~ladened pizza.

After a bit we did not give a fig for sugar cookies.

Then Sherry came over with a box of this! Being a cookie~less hostess, I made some of this.

We lit the candles, watched the wild things dance around the kitchen table and laughed and talked and then laughed and talked some more.

And so it went, my sugar cookie~less holiday season.

Up until today.

Up until now as  I write this to you.

I wish that I could say that keeping sugar cookies out of my kitchen has made me One Size Smaller but it did not as rum balls and pizza and other offered food gifts do not come calorie~free.

I wish that I could  say that not making sugar cookies saved me a ton of $$ this year but it did not as stocking up on candles and feeding wild things comes with a bit of cost.

Still...

All in all, I feel OK about not making my sugar cookies this holiday season. I hold on to ritual with a gentle hand, an open palm and a well~earned sigh.

There is always next year, after all.

I have been counting my Lucky Stars lately and they all look like people I know and care about.

My Lucky Stars encourage me left and right to go slow through this season. Take it easy.

Those of you with tons of snow piled up around your house learn this lesson quickly, I bet. To take it easy through this season.

Over here at my house where it is 78 degrees outside, where I sit now wearing shorts and such, we just run straight out the door with bare feet sometimes and try to do Too Much.

In the mean time, I am reading this off and on, am waiting on my Spare Time (which should arrive shortly) and am learning how to keep my eyes out of the head~lights.

Time--for important things like rum balls and pizza with friends and for wild things dancing on my kitchen table--appears suddenly from thin air.

{{ I do wish you could drop in and not have sugar cookies with me. }}

I do not need to try to squeeze in One More Thing, unless you count this posting.

Thinking ahead somewhat though, I do love big, fat, heart~shaped, home~made sugar cookies for Valentine's Day. The kind with Real Butter and White Flour and Granulated Sugar.

The kind with pink frosting and sprinkles. I am just saying.

 Don't you.

just so you will know it is not snowing all over the world

Things are starting to pile up over here. My dad is back in the hospital and house~keeping is low on my To~Do List.

I dusted the dining room table last month and now it needs dusting again.

Where does this house dandruff come from? And why?

I mean it isn't like anyone eats in that room except for maybe 3 or 4 times a year On Special Occasions. Spike the Cat hangs out in there sometimes searching for a misguided treat.

Hey. Call me lazy, but why should I dust a room for a cat?

No matter how long I squint at those dust bunnies {and I can see them from here} they simply will not turn into festive, holiday snowflake shapes.

"Hey. I could use some cooperation around here, please," I plead with the motes but nothing works. My particular house~brand of dust lacks inertia.

 

I am tempted to drape little white fairy lights around the dining room and to keep the place mostly in the dark until after the new year. The days are short. So why not?

Maybe I'll keep the lights glowing until Valentine's Day. Then give everything a good dusting when I take the lights up again. This would buy me some time.

Who is to know? I will call it ambiance.

Things are starting to pile up over here while I attend to more important tasks. Little things. Piling up. Growing.

Many of the piling~up~things are invisible. Like bits of Worry, drifts of  Concern.

You might be surprised to learn how quickly Worry and Concern can pile up.  They both multiply faster than one might imagine.

Did you know, for instance, that some of the heaviest things in the whole wide world are invisible and hard to hold in your hand?

With my dad in the hospital my mom has lost her appetite for cooking and eating.

"What do you mean you've had nothing to eat today but a small bowl of cereal with 10 blueberries on it?" I have been known to ask my mother.

I try to remain Calm and Supportive and Nurturing. I do. I really, really do. Try.

I even put food into her hands.

"Oh, mom, you need more than tea and toast for lunch," I encourage. "At least spread a smidgen of  peanut butter on your toast, or a plop of jam."

I would sneak food into her mouth if only I could.

I buy her groceries, piling the cart high with foods tasty in protein, energizing in carbohydrates and comforting in fat.

"Eat, eat, eat up!" I say, gaining 2 pounds simply touching the food while putting it away in her kitchen. "Have some of this, why don't cha, Mom?"

"Nothing tastes or smells good. " My mom states the facts as she knows them to be.

"I am not hungry," she goes on. Her voice drops slightly seeing the disappointment creeping onto my face even thought I do not want it there.

I make her promise to drink this every morning before driving to the hospital to see my dad where he will eat most anything he can chew.

My mom has been thin her entire life. Now she is frail and her doctor wants her to eat more.

My mom balks at all suggestions. Nothing catches her eye, nothing calls out to her for more that two mouthfuls.

Except for this and this, most well~seasoned foods call my name. I am not just talking about sweet yummies as featured so lovingly over here. Why, even Brussels sprouts know where to find me.

I hope I always enjoy the fine art of eating food.

Sweet or savory. I don't care.

You know me.  I do not want to miss a thing.

I want to eat my way around the world and back again.

Things are starting to pile up over here. I should be washing windows right now while the sun is still shining to point out the streaky missed parts on the glass.

Sixteen of my windows can be comfortably reached on the ground floor. I could overlook the difficult~to~manage windows higher up if  I Windexed those accessible 16. I should just do it.

Window washing might give me some false~but~satisfying feeling of control.

As if window~washing could remove the bits of Worry, the drifts of Concern. As if.

Housekeeping chores are easy to delay but so satisfying to accomplish.

You take care of the little piles of things that need doing. Then you do them all over again.

And so on.

Or not.

If my dad was home from the hospital and my mom would eat, there would be no bits of Worry, no drifts of Concern piling up in my heart. My dad and I would play games and draw while my mother made clam chowder.

Which she would then eat, too. With saltine crackers.

I would let housekeeping things pile up and up and up at my house. Dust. Dirty windows. And all.

If my dad was healthy at home.