Christmas Cookies
Christmas Cookies
By Bob Liter
I was only three years old when Mrs. Benson let me turn on the mixer. She’d stand me on a chair next to her red, Formica-top kitchen table. I’d turn on the switch and watch flour, sugar, vanilla and the rest of the ingredients swirl around and around, the colors blending until they melted into each other and became cookie dough. And she let me turn the mixer off, too. She’d steady me on the chair because by then my balance would have disappeared into the swirling ingredients.
But my sister, Clara, the one with the bright red hair and the missing tooth, who was six, got to pour the stuff into the bowl before I did my job. And Barb, who was nine and thought she was going to be a blonde movie star, was in charge of measuring things. Three years later, when I was six, I memorized the recipe: One-half cup of butter, two eggs, a teaspoon of vanilla, three cups of flour, and a teaspoon of baking soda. The chocolate chips go in last and are mixed in by hand.
I got a spanking at home for making a mess while trying to put all the ingredients in a bowl. I remember the spanking, and mother says to this day, "Mandy, you cried and cried. I’ve been sorry ever since although I don’t think I spanked you that hard."
The best part was when Mrs. Benson let me drop in the chocolate chips as Clara and Barb took turns stirring the mixture with wooden spoons. And then Clara and Barb would take turns putting gobs of the dough on the cookie sheet, fifteen to a sheet. There was always a contest to see which globs were closest to the size of a walnut, the size recommended by Mrs. Benson.
Mrs. Benson added or subtracted bits of dough from the globs before the cookie sheet went into the oven. The heat was set at 350 degrees by Mrs. Benson and the cookies baked for eight minutes.
Then Barb and Clara got to lift them off the sheet with a spatula and place them on a cooling wrack. The process was repeated until we had five dozen cookies, more or less.
While the second batch was baking I watched the first batch cool and sometimes tested the cookies with the tips of my fingers. That first year I burned my lips when no one was looking and I put a hot one in my mouth.
Barb said it served me right. Clara just laughed. But Mrs. Benson got me a glass of cold water and suggested it would be better to wait a little longer before I tested them. She soothed my wounded pride by declaring me the official taster and advised me when it was safe to do so.
Once Clara got mad at me because I ate what she said was her favorite cookie, the one she claimed reminded her of some movie star. Barb sided with Clara and said I was always doing something stupid like messing with her makeup or borrowing her comb.
Mrs. Benson said then and the other times we got to arguing, "Girls. We’re supposed to be a team. You have to leave petty things aside in you want to function as a team. You think the good cooks let arguments get in the way of their job? Your job is making cookies. Now c’mon, no more arguing."
Our arguments always stopped then although sometimes they started again when we got home. Making cookies at Mrs. Benson’s became an annual affair. Until she was sixteen, Barb joined Clara and me every time Mrs. Benson invited us. Mother was pleased we liked to go. Mrs. Benson lived alone and was a regular at our church. That first time was after Mrs. Benson saw us with mother and dad outside the church after services.
Mother introduced us and Mrs. Benson shook hands with me and the others. She patted me on the shoulder and asked if I would like to come to her house and make cookies. I liked cookies, that was for sure, so I said yes. Mother said she would let Mrs. Benson know. After some discussion at out kitchen table that Sunday, and a protest from Barb that she didn’t want to go to some old lady’s house to make cookies, it was eventually agreed that we would all go. Mrs. Benson’s house was only a couple of blocks over from ours and mother insisted Barb stop griping and do this little thing for "poor Mrs. Benson. Her husband is dead and her two daughters have moved away. She’s all alone."
We did it every year, the last time when I was seventeen. Barb had gotten married, Clara was in college and they seldom were home at the same time.
"When children grow up they drift apart, mostly. Your sisters have lives of their own," mother told me when I complained. It was kinda sad, just me and Mrs. Benson making cookies. I did most of the measuring, mixing, and baking. I had to watch her because sometimes she forgot the recipe. It still was fun, but not the same.
By the time I went away to college I hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Benson for several weeks. She was no longer at church when we were. Mother said she had started going to the late service if she went at all. I thought of visiting her, but by then I had a boyfriend and I thought I was just too busy.
That last Christmas, after Barb had missed coming home for three of them and Clara was angry with her and they weren’t speaking, I sat with mother at the kitchen table.
"It’s sad when your own children can’t get along," mother said.
I listened. I was good at that. I’m an office manager now at Apex Insurance downtown and a lot of the problems we have are eventually settled because I just listen to the complaints.
But it didn’t always work. I listened to Barb and I listened to Clara. Not often, because we were seldom together, but when I had the chance I listened.
Mother was getting older. Her hair had turned gray, her eyes weren’t as clear as they once were, and that winter she often expressed the fear that one or the other of the girls wouldn’t come home. I had the feeling she was thinking it might be the last chance for all of us to get together again. Dad had died from bone-marrow cancer earlier in the year. I spent as much time as possible with my mother. She appreciated it. but it was obvious she missed Clara and Barb.
I talked to them about coming home for Christmas. "Well, maybe," they both said.
I called them both, convinced them it was important they come home for Christmas, and said, "For your mother’s sake, get along. Or at least pretend to."
Christmas week finally came. Barb came with her daughter, Bridget who was ten. Clara brought her whole family, her husband Hank, her boy, Augie, 12, and her three-year-old girl, Amanda. She was named after me, Clara said, only they called her Amanda instead of Mandy.
She was a cute little thing and I found myself thinking she reminded me of me when I was that age.
"I don’t see it," Clara said. "She never gets in trouble. Remember that time you tried to make cookies and made such a mess?"
That night mother and I sat at the kitchen table drinking a final cup of tea. Barb and her daughter had gone to bed and Clara and her family had gone back to the motel where they were staying.
"I wish they’d stay here," mother said.
"I know. There’s room."
"Too bad they just can’t seem to get along."
"They used to," I sighed. "Mrs. Benson used to straighten us out when we were making cookies. She said we were a team and teammates don’t argue all the time. How is she? She still alive."
"Oh my, yes, much older of course and not as spry as she used to be. Saw her at church just last week. We both go to the late service now."
"Could we invite her over for Christmas dinner?"
"Mandy, what a wonderful idea. Give her a call, tell her you’ll drive over and pick her up."
I called her Christmas Eve morning. She sounded frail and said she would think about it.
"Please come," I said. "We’ll make cookies and I’ll let you turn on the mixer."
She laughed.
I sat with her at Christmas services and helped her into my car. I saw a tear slide down her check before she turned away.
By noon the whole family was there and I insisted my two sisters come into the kitchen and help me and Mrs. Benson make cookies. The routine wasn’t quite the same. Clara and Barb got to arguing about the recipe. I knew it of course, but I was sick of trying to referee.
Mrs. Benson turned off the mixer and, in a voice quivering with emotion, said, "Girls. We’re supposed to be a team. You have to leave petty things aside in you want to function as a team. You think good cooks let arguments get in the way of their job? Your job is making cookies. Now c’mon, no more arguing."
Clara and Barb looked at each other. Clara smiled without opening her mouth. Barb laughed nervously. Their arms opened slowly, they closed the distance between them and embraced. It was a good Christmas.
#####
By Bob Liter
I was only three years old when Mrs. Benson let me turn on the mixer. She’d stand me on a chair next to her red, Formica-top kitchen table. I’d turn on the switch and watch flour, sugar, vanilla and the rest of the ingredients swirl around and around, the colors blending until they melted into each other and became cookie dough. And she let me turn the mixer off, too. She’d steady me on the chair because by then my balance would have disappeared into the swirling ingredients.
But my sister, Clara, the one with the bright red hair and the missing tooth, who was six, got to pour the stuff into the bowl before I did my job. And Barb, who was nine and thought she was going to be a blonde movie star, was in charge of measuring things. Three years later, when I was six, I memorized the recipe: One-half cup of butter, two eggs, a teaspoon of vanilla, three cups of flour, and a teaspoon of baking soda. The chocolate chips go in last and are mixed in by hand.
I got a spanking at home for making a mess while trying to put all the ingredients in a bowl. I remember the spanking, and mother says to this day, "Mandy, you cried and cried. I’ve been sorry ever since although I don’t think I spanked you that hard."
The best part was when Mrs. Benson let me drop in the chocolate chips as Clara and Barb took turns stirring the mixture with wooden spoons. And then Clara and Barb would take turns putting gobs of the dough on the cookie sheet, fifteen to a sheet. There was always a contest to see which globs were closest to the size of a walnut, the size recommended by Mrs. Benson.
Mrs. Benson added or subtracted bits of dough from the globs before the cookie sheet went into the oven. The heat was set at 350 degrees by Mrs. Benson and the cookies baked for eight minutes.
Then Barb and Clara got to lift them off the sheet with a spatula and place them on a cooling wrack. The process was repeated until we had five dozen cookies, more or less.
While the second batch was baking I watched the first batch cool and sometimes tested the cookies with the tips of my fingers. That first year I burned my lips when no one was looking and I put a hot one in my mouth.
Barb said it served me right. Clara just laughed. But Mrs. Benson got me a glass of cold water and suggested it would be better to wait a little longer before I tested them. She soothed my wounded pride by declaring me the official taster and advised me when it was safe to do so.
Once Clara got mad at me because I ate what she said was her favorite cookie, the one she claimed reminded her of some movie star. Barb sided with Clara and said I was always doing something stupid like messing with her makeup or borrowing her comb.
Mrs. Benson said then and the other times we got to arguing, "Girls. We’re supposed to be a team. You have to leave petty things aside in you want to function as a team. You think the good cooks let arguments get in the way of their job? Your job is making cookies. Now c’mon, no more arguing."
Our arguments always stopped then although sometimes they started again when we got home. Making cookies at Mrs. Benson’s became an annual affair. Until she was sixteen, Barb joined Clara and me every time Mrs. Benson invited us. Mother was pleased we liked to go. Mrs. Benson lived alone and was a regular at our church. That first time was after Mrs. Benson saw us with mother and dad outside the church after services.
Mother introduced us and Mrs. Benson shook hands with me and the others. She patted me on the shoulder and asked if I would like to come to her house and make cookies. I liked cookies, that was for sure, so I said yes. Mother said she would let Mrs. Benson know. After some discussion at out kitchen table that Sunday, and a protest from Barb that she didn’t want to go to some old lady’s house to make cookies, it was eventually agreed that we would all go. Mrs. Benson’s house was only a couple of blocks over from ours and mother insisted Barb stop griping and do this little thing for "poor Mrs. Benson. Her husband is dead and her two daughters have moved away. She’s all alone."
We did it every year, the last time when I was seventeen. Barb had gotten married, Clara was in college and they seldom were home at the same time.
"When children grow up they drift apart, mostly. Your sisters have lives of their own," mother told me when I complained. It was kinda sad, just me and Mrs. Benson making cookies. I did most of the measuring, mixing, and baking. I had to watch her because sometimes she forgot the recipe. It still was fun, but not the same.
By the time I went away to college I hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Benson for several weeks. She was no longer at church when we were. Mother said she had started going to the late service if she went at all. I thought of visiting her, but by then I had a boyfriend and I thought I was just too busy.
That last Christmas, after Barb had missed coming home for three of them and Clara was angry with her and they weren’t speaking, I sat with mother at the kitchen table.
"It’s sad when your own children can’t get along," mother said.
I listened. I was good at that. I’m an office manager now at Apex Insurance downtown and a lot of the problems we have are eventually settled because I just listen to the complaints.
But it didn’t always work. I listened to Barb and I listened to Clara. Not often, because we were seldom together, but when I had the chance I listened.
Mother was getting older. Her hair had turned gray, her eyes weren’t as clear as they once were, and that winter she often expressed the fear that one or the other of the girls wouldn’t come home. I had the feeling she was thinking it might be the last chance for all of us to get together again. Dad had died from bone-marrow cancer earlier in the year. I spent as much time as possible with my mother. She appreciated it. but it was obvious she missed Clara and Barb.
I talked to them about coming home for Christmas. "Well, maybe," they both said.
I called them both, convinced them it was important they come home for Christmas, and said, "For your mother’s sake, get along. Or at least pretend to."
Christmas week finally came. Barb came with her daughter, Bridget who was ten. Clara brought her whole family, her husband Hank, her boy, Augie, 12, and her three-year-old girl, Amanda. She was named after me, Clara said, only they called her Amanda instead of Mandy.
She was a cute little thing and I found myself thinking she reminded me of me when I was that age.
"I don’t see it," Clara said. "She never gets in trouble. Remember that time you tried to make cookies and made such a mess?"
That night mother and I sat at the kitchen table drinking a final cup of tea. Barb and her daughter had gone to bed and Clara and her family had gone back to the motel where they were staying.
"I wish they’d stay here," mother said.
"I know. There’s room."
"Too bad they just can’t seem to get along."
"They used to," I sighed. "Mrs. Benson used to straighten us out when we were making cookies. She said we were a team and teammates don’t argue all the time. How is she? She still alive."
"Oh my, yes, much older of course and not as spry as she used to be. Saw her at church just last week. We both go to the late service now."
"Could we invite her over for Christmas dinner?"
"Mandy, what a wonderful idea. Give her a call, tell her you’ll drive over and pick her up."
I called her Christmas Eve morning. She sounded frail and said she would think about it.
"Please come," I said. "We’ll make cookies and I’ll let you turn on the mixer."
She laughed.
I sat with her at Christmas services and helped her into my car. I saw a tear slide down her check before she turned away.
By noon the whole family was there and I insisted my two sisters come into the kitchen and help me and Mrs. Benson make cookies. The routine wasn’t quite the same. Clara and Barb got to arguing about the recipe. I knew it of course, but I was sick of trying to referee.
Mrs. Benson turned off the mixer and, in a voice quivering with emotion, said, "Girls. We’re supposed to be a team. You have to leave petty things aside in you want to function as a team. You think good cooks let arguments get in the way of their job? Your job is making cookies. Now c’mon, no more arguing."
Clara and Barb looked at each other. Clara smiled without opening her mouth. Barb laughed nervously. Their arms opened slowly, they closed the distance between them and embraced. It was a good Christmas.
#####
posted by Bob Liter at 8:23 AM
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