Growing up, we didn't really know our neighbors. We lived out in the country, and while my parents knew the names of everyone around us, it wasn't like we were a close-knit community. Still, every year, my mom would bake and deliver the goods to the neighbors. After a few years of massive cookie-ness, she settled on making cream cheese coffee cake (a recipe I'll need to get from her for next year). She made mini loaves, wrapped them in pink cellophane, and handed them over once a year in December.
Last year, I made fudge, my old standby, and did the same. This year, a neighbor has already dropped off goodies, and she made fudge, too! I decided I would try to do something different.
Remember the cookie press? I grew up with one with individual disks, but the one I've inherited is somehow not the same one of my childhood:
I used to love making press cookies when I was a kid. I don't know why: they're a pain in the neck! My misplaced fondness doesn't stem from the fact that my mom did all the work: whenever we baked, I only remember her taking over for me on two recipes. She would stir chocolate chip cookies once all the flour was added, 'cause my little arms couldn't handle it, and she was the one to man the double boiler if melting chocolate was called for.
Either way, my nostalgia for the cookie press quickly turned into a good round of holiday cussing. I managed to make maybe half the promised amount of cookies (wasting the rest of the dough on unidentifiable blobs), and when I looked at how empty the containers were...
I sent my husband out to get the fixings for fudge. My lesson? If it ain't broke, don't fix it (and not all childhood memories need to be repeated now that I'm an adult).
Happy week of parties, blessings, and a dash of madness.