The Cookie Party

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

BY: Deborah Shouse

Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.
~Eleanor Roosevelt


I set my briefcase on my gritty kitchen counter and traced the raised gold lettering on the thick ivory card. "You are Invited to a Holiday Cookie Party," the card read. The invitation was from a fascinating, creative, high-powered executive I had met only months ago. I was surprised and thrilled that she had invited me to such a gathering.

Each woman would bring a batch of home-baked cookies, she explained in her note. We would then get to sample all the cookies and take a bag of treats home to our families. I adored the idea of bringing my teenage daughters such an array of home-baked sweets. I envisioned a room filled with charming baskets of star-shaped sugar cookies, generously topped with red or green frosting. I imagined a jolly basket of Santa cookies, and a fragrant ginger-scented array of reindeer cookies. I wanted to bite into rum balls, sinfully rich fudge and even nibble a piece of golden raisin fruitcake. I fantasized about thumbprint cookies, gooey with jam, and about silky buttery sandies melting in my mouth.

Then I realized the implications. Given the nature of the invitation and the fact that its sender worked at such an innovative company, these holiday cookies would not only be beautiful, creative and delicious, they would be presented in festive and unusual ways. I didn't even have time to worry about what I would wear -- I could only think about what I would bake.

Given the fact I had never really baked anything other than the occasional clumpy chocolate chip, peanut butter or oatmeal cookie, I figured my offerings would be ignored and I would feel left out, inadequate and disgraced. Why hadn't my mother been a more glamorous baker, I fretted, as I turned on the kettle and rummaged in the refrigerator for something to make for dinner. She only made the plainest of cookies -- date crumbs, peanut butter and chocolate chip. As I sipped my tea, boiled water for pasta and heated up the jar of Mamma Somebody's Secret Marinara Sauce with Mushrooms, I analyzed the situation. Right before the pasta was ready to pour into the colander, a number floated into my head and I dialed it.

"If I decide to go to this cookie party, will you help me come up with a recipe and a cute idea for presenting the cookies?" I asked my friend Judith, who was graced with five-star baking abilities.

"Of course," she said. Judith had the kind of aplomb and panache that would fit right in at such a gathering. Briefly, I wondered if she could go to the party in my place, and just deliver my treats to me.
I told my daughters the good news -- in several weeks we would have our own private holiday cookie festival. Since our sweets were usually the mass-produced variety, made by some giant corporate entity, they were ultra excited.

A week later, I received a thick packet in the mail. Judith had selected a number of "easy" recipes for me to consider. I smiled as I looked over the pictures. These cookies were adorable, with just the sort of cute holiday twist that would help me blend in. I frowned as I read through the baking instructions. These cookies required a kind of culinary acumen I had never been able to achieve. Plus, each cookie demanded its own specialized pan, gourmet tool, thermometer or esoteric ingredient. This would never work for me.

The day of the cookie party neared and I had no recipe, no cookies, no plan and nothing to wear.

That night at dinner, I said, "I don't think I can go to the cookie party."

"Why not?" Sarah said sharply. She was thirteen and took promises and plans very seriously. Plus, she had a highly sophisticated taste for sweets and was looking forward to expanding her repertoire.

"I don't have anything cute to make. I can't just walk in carrying a paltry tray of blobby-looking chocolate chip cookies." My throat constricted and I wished I was the sort of mother who could whip up a chocolate soufflé from ingredients that just happened to be in my kitchen cabinets.

"Why not?" my older daughter Jessica said. Even during the holiday season, she kept to her black-themed wardrobe. She looked Gothic and serious as she coached me. "Everyone else will be all silver bells and fancy sprinkles. You will represent the good old-fashioned approach to the holidays -- the working middle class and all that. Your simplicity will be a breath of fresh air."

I took a breath and took in her words. If worse came to worst, I could always pretend I never saw those cookies before in my life.

That evening, my daughters and I made chocolate chip cookies. We put them, as usual, in a simple tin lined with aluminum foil. In honor of the holiday season, I unearthed a shiny red bow to top the tin. They analyzed my clothes and helped me select something reasonably festive to wear.

Walking into the party was like walking into a fairyland. Christmas lights lined the windows and a sparkling tree spread its branches in the living room. The dining room table looked like the December cover of Gourmet magazine. Stars, hearts, Christmas trees, snowmen, all the icons of the season were out and glowing with icing and sprinkles. Some cookies were nestled in handmade wreathes. Others shone from star-shaped or tree-shaped boxes. A fruitcake was surrounded by a miniature set of reindeer. A charming wicker basket lined with red velvet cradled a mound of delicate meringues. Walnut-topped fudge nestled in a wrapping paper covered box and a galaxy of colorful star-shaped cookies decorated a tiered silver-server. I admired each display, all the while looking for a quiet corner where I could tuck in my tin of chocolate chips. I finally settled them between candy cane cookies and the gingerbread Santas.

My hostess offered me a glass of champagne and introduced me to several women. The conversation flowed. Then our hostess announced, "It's time to gather the cookies." She had a large silver gift sack for each of us and encouraged us to take several of each cookie. As I began the table tour, I sneaked a look at my humble confection. What if no one took any? What if I had to take the whole batch home? What if... I thought as I filled my sack with samples of every delectable cookie there.

"Who made the chocolate chip cookies?" someone asked. The room quieted. I concentrated on the rum balls in front of me, considering my options. The silence spread and finally I said, "I did."

Though I spoke softly, I felt like the announcement blasted into the room from a bullhorn.

"What an interesting idea," someone said.

"Yes, I never would have thought of it. It's comforting, you know, it reminds me of my mother and home."

I smiled as I put three rum balls in my sack and headed for the reindeer.

That evening my daughters and I had a magnificent holiday feast, consisting of cookies, cookies and cookies.

"Here's the strange thing, Mom," Jessica said, as she leaned back, sated. "Your cookies are really just as good as any of them. Not as cute, but just as delicious."

"More delicious," Sarah said.

I smiled, thinking that about my mom's cookies when I was growing up. Maybe there was something to say about the plain old recipes offered in the plain old way, so sturdy, so unglamorous and yet so deliciously comforting... like coming home.
 

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