November
7, 2013
Doing
serious damage to my cookie inventory. I can hear the loud moaning from across the
duplex, the exquisite crunch of nuts, mixture of rich chocolates, tender flax
seeds softened by the heat of the oven. Not certain why I became compelled to
bake this morning, an error of judgment set me into motion, sleep depravation
perhaps.
For
years in a row, a gaggle of friends got together early December, to eek out
dozens of home-made chocolate filled candies, laced with caramel, crème (the
good kind,) marshmallow, nougat, peanut butter, brandy liquor, coconut and
such. We melted, chopped, grated, poured and decorated the molded delights over
several Saturdays, gossiping and sharing details of our lives over the ooze. Each
of us left with tins of luscious Santas, reindeer, snowmen and women, elves,
holly and some quite undecipherable forms. Sometimes the partners, boyfriends,
husbands or kids would show up and ask if they could partake but we declined
their assistance. The time together was too precious to allow family across the
border. It was up to our own crowd of hommies to sort ourselves out. And
mostly, we did.
I
think about those women friends from so many years back, especially around the
holidays, wondering where they are and what has occurred in their lives since
those “I Love Lucy” days at the candy factory. We did eat plenty of the “errors”
and ugly ones that were not up to par but the conveyor belt took its time and, lucky
for us, we were not fired for our mistakes. Maybe even encouraged the faulty
chocolate goobers.
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