Why I Can't Bake Christmas Cookies Without Crying:

A few months ago, I heard Gwyneth Paltrow tell Rachael Ray that she cried into her pancakes every time she made them, because the recipe was taught to her by her father, who had since passed away.  Gwyneth tried to laugh about it, but I knew only too well the pain she was feeling because, unfortunately, I can relate.  I cannot even think about baking Christmas cookies without landing somewhere between welling-up and outright sobbing, depending on whether or not my kids are around.

The reason for this annual holiday meltdown?  My grandma Rose ("hot-rod Rosy" to those of us who had ever dared to sit in her passenger seat).  She is no longer with us, and every Christmas season I miss her even more than usual.  You see, I was born to a mother who, although wonderful, supportive and giving in every way, was more tomboy than Betty Crocker.  You would be more likely to find her on a softball field than standing over a tray of freshly baked, well, anything.  This is where my grandma Rose came in.  She was everything that a grandma should be.  She baked, sewed, sang silly songs while playing the organ, jumped rope, played hopscotch, and powdered us from head to toe with a big pink powder puff.  She was sweet and loving and never once scolded my sister or me. 

But my best memories with grandma are the times we spent together baking Christmas cookies and pies.  She would let my sister and I help with every step, never losing patience or raising her voice.  She let us decorate every cookie, and taste them fresh and warm out of the oven.  She had the magic touch, and when I say that they were the best cookies anyone has ever tasted, you can take that to the bank.  Everything she made turned out perfectly. 

At the time, I enjoyed spending this time with my grandma, but I am not sure that I appreciated it and cherished it the way that I should have.  I did not know that before she would pass, old age would rob her of these very memories that were so precious to me.  As her mind faded, I regretted desperately not spending even more time with her, not taking notes, not asking her every question about her life that I could think of.  When she left us at the age of 95, I was left with equal parts happy memories and regrets.

My grandma was in large part a role model for the type of sweet, nurturing, Betty Crocker mom I strive to be.  So far I have not been able to match her sweet nature or patience, or her unbelievable baking skills, but I try.  And because of my grandma, I make sure every holiday season, no matter what is going on in our lives, to set aside time to bake with my kids.  It is messy, and at times a bit frustrating, but I keep a smile on my face and patience in my voice because I know, without a doubt, just how precious these memories will be to them someday when I am gone.

So this year I will put on the faded and torn housecoat that my grandma wore all those years ago when she baked, and I will do my best to hide my tears from my kids as I pass on my grandma's beautiful tradition.  If you are one of the ones to whom I deliver a tray, please forgive me if the cookies are a bit too salty - some of my tears may have escaped into the batter.