Christmas Cookie Extravaganza

I do it every year.

I swear never to do it again every year.

Repeat Sentence No. 1.

When I was little, my grandmother made Christmas cookies. She had a three-tiered tray on which she served them, and I always marveled at all the different kinds. Italian anise shortbread, sugar, chocolate chip, fudge ... and then I moved away, and the multi-cookie noshing stopped.

Three years ago, I realized something.

I can bake.

Moreover, I am a good baker.

So I pored over cookbooks and cookie blogs, looking for recipes to try out. I think my first year looked like this:

Sugar cookies
Cranberry-white-chocolate cookies
Pecan pie cookies
Italian anise cookies

Last year, I decided to kick it up a notch. I went for:
Cranberry white-chocolate cookies
Pecan pie cookies
Italian anise cookies
Chocolate chip cookies
Red Velvet Whoopie Pies

It takes two days to bake all of them, because I use them for Christmas gift for coworkers for both me and the hubs. That entails multiple batches, strategic bagging and storing, and a LOT of paper bags and tissue paper.

I wash untold number of dishes during this extravaganza, and I always regret that at no point in the previous year did I break down and buy the chef's kitchen mat that I always covet ... during Christmas Cookie Extravaganza.

But now Christmas is near. It's about the time of year that I start planning the CCE.

"No," I told myself last week. "Absolutely not. It is exhausting, and nobody needs those cookies this year."

After all, my work has organized its first Secret Santa exchange.

But yesterday, a thought pinged my cookie-shaped brain.

"Mmmm, I could go for a iced sugar cookie right about now."

And today, another one came through.

"We will be Home Alone on Christmas. Wouldn't it be great to have platters of all kinds of Christmas cookies?"

That reminded me that a co-worker gave me this suggestion, if I were to be her Secret Santa: "Don't buy me anything. Just make me more of those Red Velvet Whoopie Pies. That's all I want for Christmas."

I know that the pings are going to come more frequently, and the voices will get louder.

Already I'm mulling over my Dream Team of cookies this year: Cranberry white-chocolate, pecan pie, iced sugar and Italian anise. I know the hubs wolfed down a whole tray of the too-sweet-for-even-me whoopie pies last year.

And it would be very grinch-like not to bring some into the office, right?

These cookies freeze, right?

I'm gaining 10 pounds this month, right?

My dog is in love with my husband

It's not a secret in my house, but it's true.

My dog is in love with my husband.

He enjoys my stepson, and he loves me ... he's just not in love with me. He saves that hysterical, over-the-top passion for the hubs, and him alone.

Because Koa is a German Shepherd Dog, he manages to look dignified all the time. Every morning when he hears the hubs' alarm go off, I can hear the jingle-jangle of tags as the dog stretches and rises to greet the object of his affection with a lick.

He'll follow Matt around until he leaves for the gym, at which point it's become Koa's duty to curl up in the armchair closest to the garage door and wait for Lord and Master to come home.

All morning, Matt has a shadow. If he's having breakfast in the kitchen, Koa is lying down, head-on-paws, looking up at him. If he's in the shower, Koa is lying in the hallway, head-on-paws, waiting for him. If he's in the bathroom, Koa doesn't even bother to lay down. It's a dangerous room, with all that swirling water and washing, so Koa just stands at attention, nose pressed to the door, until Matt exits.

When I get up, I walk to the shower unaccompanied. I don't get my morning hello until I'm dressed and in the living room. If I sit on the couch, Koa will trot over and allow me to pet him for a few minutes. I imagine my greeting is something like this:

"Hey, person! Good morning. I hope you slept well. Now if you'll excuse me, HE is walking down the hall and I must follow. But it's lovely to see you."

After Matt leaves for the day, Koa gives a giant sigh and returns to his chair by the door.

"He's gone. Again. Guess I'll just curl up and wait for him."

He doesn't follow me to the kitchen, as I eat my breakfast; or to the bathroom, when I'm putting my makeup on even though I use the very dangerous loud air blowing machine on my fur.

If I make noise reentering the living room, he'll turn his head to look at me.

"Oh. It's you. Hello. I thought it might have been him. Do you know when he's coming back?"

He accepts a quick caress from me when I leave, but then goes back to resting his chin on the arm of the chair.

When I come home about 15 minutes before Matt, I can only assume he hasn't left the chair all day, as I catch him stretching getting out of it. I get a friendly greeting.

"Hey, person! I missed you today! Can we go outside and play? Oh, he's not with you? That's OK, we can play until he gets home, can't we? Aren't you ready to go outside? Aren't you? Aren't you?"

Usually, though, I have to make a quick turn in the house to make sure the dishwasher is unloaded, dishes are put away and the kitchen is clean enough for dinner prep. Koa just lays outside, head on paws, watching me and making sure I can see the whites of his eyes.

"Don't you love me? Why won't you play with me?"

When I'm finished with my chores, I go out and throw the ball around. He runs and fetches, chases and leaps away, and general merriment is had by all. But when the door to the garage opens again, it's a whole different proposition as he drops whatever he's doing to bolt toward his One and Only.

"YOU'RE HOME! I've been waiting for you ALL DAY! I missed you! Did you miss me?! I bet you did! Oh, I love you I love you I love you!!! Come on! Let's go play!! Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon!!! YOU'RE HOOOOOMMMMEEE!"

And the shadowing continues. If Koa gets stuck outside while Matt is inside, he paces the sliding glass door, following him with his eyes.

If Matt goes outside and Koa is inside, just one small whine will escape his control before he makes the rounds of every door and window in the joint to make sure nothing bad has happened while the trash gets taken out.

Matt walks him after we all eat, and in the meantime I get dinner cleaned up and climb into bed. Every night, without fail, my dignified dog comes straight to me after the walk.

"Hello, person," he seems to say, offering me his neck for a scratch. "I just wanted to make sure you got settled in OK. HE is inside, and I know he's fine. Do you need anything? OK, then. Have a good night's sleep. I'll see you in the morning. Don't worry about HIM, by the way. I've got that covered."

Whatever happened to class?

I love novels set before the industrial era.

I love to read about Victorians, pioneers, Canadians and vampires.

You wouldn't think those groups have much in common, but oh, they do.

They've all got class.

They don't curse or talk back; they wear long hems and high necklines; they believe in playing outside instead of watching television; and the only vice they have is (maybe) playing cards or dueling for honor. (Sure, vampires are usually murdering fiends, but not the ones I like to read about. Not the protagonists.)

Not. Like. Now.

Maybe I've spent too much time with Anne of Green Gables, the Forsytes, Jo's Boys, the Dashwoods and the Cullens'. (Now that I read that list, maybe I need to spend more time reading fiction for adults.) But I find an era that values modesty, decency and manners refreshing.

So when I'm in my car and I see Monster Truck Guy flip Cadillac Grandma the bird, I want to stop him and shout, in my best shocked tone: "Edward Ferras would NEVER do that!" Usually, that's followed by, "Don't you have a mother?" but that's a different blog entry.

When teenage girls pass me on the street with skirts up to here and necklines down to there, I want to ask them to save something for later, because if you give it all up now you'll have nothing to hold back; and remind them of how Anne made a daisy chain necklace so she'd feel less naked when her gown dipped below her collarbone.

I even find myself wincing at the overly grotesque lyrics of some rap songs, and flipping to the Michael Buble/Marc Broussard playlist on my iPod. After all, I can just feel Jo (March) Baher's disappointed eyes on me when I lend my mind to bitches, pimps and hos. That's valuable brain space, after all.

Does that make me old? Old fashioned? Hopelessly out of date?

Maybe.

But I think it also makes me a pretty nice gal. One who would look good in an era where hats are in style and shock her knitting group by saying, "Oh, darn!"

(That's not to say that I don't shock my husband by littering the floor with F-bombs when I'm feeling saucy. But once again, another story for another blog.)