The Biscuit Story - Part Deux, or Christmas Cookies

It's taken about thirty years for me to get to tell the end of this story.  Hopefully you've read the beginning already.

This is Scarlett.  She is two.  She brought her parents to visit us for Thanksgiving this year.

Helping Grandpa decorate the tree.

When the turkey was all tucked away in its Tupperware and the pies were half-eaten, we had some time on our hands, so I pulled out a batch of cookie dough I had made and she and I cut out some Christmas cookies.  We put on our aprons and washed our hands and pulled up a sturdy stool for Scarlett to stand on so that she and I were almost the same height, and we began to roll out the dough.  On the counter stood the large plastic container I use to store flour.  It holds about ten pounds when it's full.  In it I keep a 1-cup measure and a scoop.  As I dusted the cutting board with flour and she and I took turns rolling the dough flat, a thought occurred to me.  It was a memory, actually.

I was back in the linoleum-tiled kitchen of my childhood, with the formica counters and the half-circle shelf.  I was on the floor, sitting next to my mother's metal flour can.  It probably held twenty pounds of flour, and the lid made a satisfying "twang" when you snapped it shut.  Somewhere nearby I'm sure my mother was baking something, but I was oblivious.  I was allowed to play in that flour.  I stirred the flour with my fingers, reveling it the dry coolness.  I scooped with different sized measuring cups and measuring spoons and leveled off the flour to a perfectly smooth finish, then dumped it back into the bucket and measured it again. I don't remember making a mess on the floor, but I surely must have.  I do know that sometimes I measured amounts for mom into a bowl for her recipes, but mostly I just played.  It's one of the blissful memories of my childhood.

I also was carrying another memory with me that evening, of biscuits and a small boy, so it was by no accident that Scarlett rolled the dough flat and chose her own cookie cutter.  I showed her how to run the cutter through a pile of flour to dust the edges so the dough wouldn't stick.  She liked doing that.  Then I showed her how to press-press-press the cutter into the dough.  She made little grunting noises to ensure that she was pressing hard enough. Then we lifted the cutters and touched them, tap-tap-tap, on the cutting board to loosen the dough.  The moment of truth came as I turned the shapes over to Scarlett to place on the greased cookie sheet.  She laid them down very carefully and I saw that she noticed when the cookie folded over on itself.  She would do her best to lift the corner, or press the dough back into shape.  My job was to turn the cookie sheet and make room for more cut-outs.

I am ashamed to admit how proud I was of myself -- not a single "No!" or word of alarm escaped my lips. I freely confess that I flinched a few times, but the sight of those wibbly-wobbly, slightly-scrunched shapes on the cookie sheet filled my heart with pleasure.  It was not as much pleasure as what I felt at the sight of her intent and contented little face while she worked, though.  And then I had an idea. 

"Would you like to scoop some flour?" I asked her.  She would, indeed! I showed her how to fill the scoop and then empty it into the cup.  She began to build a flour mountain inside the bucket, and I only intervened when the mountain lifted far above the top.  We knocked the flour back into the bucket and she began building a new one.  There was flour on the floor, and flour on the counter, and some on our noses (because I can't bake without getting flour on my face, ever).  It was perfect.

And in this perfect moment, to be honest, it wasn't really pride I was feeling at all; just joy.  Four generations were together in the kitchen that night.  Scarlett saying, "I scoopin', mama!" Sheena capturing the moment with her camera.  Me reveling in grandparental bliss.  My mom was there, too; I felt her.  That doesn't happen often for me.  I suspect I'm too caught up in my own busy-ness, but I'm working on that.  One Christmas cookie at a time.