A black belt in baking
Excel at making the holidays rewarding
I was just thinking about how much baking I’ve been doing this month. I’ve even got a new nickname from neighbors whose grandsons I’ve not met ... yet. Apparently, I’m dubbed “The Black Belt Baker.” But my sharing of baked goods and breads is twofold. It’s cathartic and it’s something good to share with the people I care about.
There’s a purpose in knowing there are small things you can do that matter in big ways. Today, it’s Christmas cookies.
As I powder the snowflake press and tap it softly to loosen excess flour, the sound of the UPS truck rumbling up the driveway alerts me and has me wresting the blue-handled cookie press back into its nest of flour covering the well of the small bowl. I scan the assortment of festive presses as a reminder for where I left off: one with a bird in a garland of flowers. I bought the press years ago and never used it except as a decorative piece on the shelf.
As the headlights flash through the kitchen windows, I hasten. Brushing my hands on my apron and darting into the pantry first, I reach for one of the chocolate-caramel bars tied in a bow, small tokens of appreciation for all those who work to deliver the things that make life easier, more joyful and better in various ways.
Last week, a chocolate bar for Mr. Fry, who delivers the cord word to keep us warm. Before that, one for the propane man, Chris. Tonight, this one for Frank as a gesture of thanks and sweet merriment. Tomorrow, one for Deborah, who delivers a variety of frozen foods from Schwan’s. And this season has our UPS delivery man doing double-time delivering sacks and piles of orders, sometimes late into the bitter cold evening. And in spite of it, we can always count on him handing us a package with a cheerful greeting.
This season, I’ve been baking a lot. One upside of COVID-19’s downside. No order can cancel what I do inside my own kitchen, and it’s kind of nice, liberating even, not having to wear a mask for a change.
And with our daughter and her fiancé not able to visit from North Carolina this year, I’m preheating the oven and taking action. I’ve left behind the online ordering for a more organic and very, merry old-fashioned order straight from my own home fires to my children’s. Already, the flours, salt, baking soda and spices have been blended, the butter browned to nutty perfection, and the sugars, vanilla and eggs creamed with a hand mixer, the dough formed, rolled, and wrapped to chill for an hour before the process of rolling into balls and pressing begins.
On the range sits a yellow, heavy sauce pan, and a grater for zesting is ready during the interim. I’ve got lemons and eggs to whisk with sugar to make lemon curd, which I’ll pour into the Bonne Maman jam jars I’ve saved — their wide
mouths are easy to spoon into and their red-checked lids are pretty. A favorite treat and great companion for breads, biscuits and scones.
My apron growing more floury, my thoughts rest on my family and Christmases past. With each design pressed carefully and laid onto the parchment, time seems to stand still long enough to envision the future and to realize how quickly the years go by without ever waiting.
Pages of photo albums flip in my mind: The kids’ letters to Santa Claus at the North Pole. Jillian climbing up onto Santa’s lap at 4 years old, the third sibling of four waiting patiently, making her wish for “all the homeless to have a home.” Natalie playing “Ave Maria” on the piano. Steven’s toboggan jumps and clever inventions. Sean on the guitar and singing. All of us bundling up to go skating and sledding under the moonlight. All of them surprising us with breakfast in bed one morning and covering the smoke detector with a plastic bag when the toast burned. The silly Yankee swaps as they grew older. And Christmas Eve parties with relatives and friends. Tucking the kids into bed with sugarplums dancing in their heads.
And I in my scotch tape and Steve with a roll of wrapping paper, getting to silent work as “A Wonderful Life” played quietly on the television in the glow of the tree lights. Some years, we thought we’d never get tucked into bed ourselves, and we prayed the kids wouldn’t come bouncing onto our bed too early on Christmas Day.
But they always did.
All those years have gone by, but it hardly seems possible. And here we are, welcoming our grandchildren into the same imperfect yet wonderful fold.
Pulled into the moment at hand, I thanked Frank, wished him a merry Christmas and waved as the boxy truck gained traction and climbed the snowy hill. My breath encircled my head as I closed the mudroom door, the red-ribboned wreath we got from Aubuchon’s hanging evergreen in the porch light.
The box from Amazon had me wondering if it was the Nordic Ware snowflake cake pan. (Did I mention I’ve been baking a lot?) Collin wants a marble cake for Christmas. I made a mental note to ask Robert, Steven and Scarlett what flavor cakes they like best. Down the hall, past the Christmas tree, and right back into the kitchen where I slid open a drawer for the scissors. Doubly pleased, the heavy cast pan’s label proclaims, “Made in America — Family Owned.”
Family is good. The idea of family is essential to life.
The snowflake cookie stamp was right where I left it. Several snowflakes already lie in waiting in rows. For now, to bake for the people I love, to get the cookies packaged for freshness and mailed directly, was the mission.
By midnight the cookies — cooled, glazed with icing and carefully placed into tins — had been wrapped, bubble-packed, boxed and addressed to two people I love dearly.
Time to rest. I climb the stairs to roll into bed with the dream of tomorrow’s baked offerings and knowing a parcel of cookies on the table downstairs with all of its love and warmth will soon be received in North Carolina by people I care for very much.
It’s much easier to fall asleep when one is good and tired and has a plan. Tomorrow will be another baking day. This time of special cakes.
Bonnie J. Toomey teaches at Plymouth State University, and writes about writing, learning and life in the 21st century. You can follow Parent Forward on Twitter at https://twitter.com/ bonniejtoomey. Learn more at www.parentforward.blogspot.com or visit bonniejtoomey.com.