I hope you’re all doing well and taking a breather for at least part of your day.
Today is National Cookie Day. It’s also National Cabernet Franc and National Sock Day. But let’s stick to cookies.
I am not a baker. My family knows this, but every December, my grown daughter, says, “Let’s bake Christmas cookies,” as if we have a tradition.
We do not.
A roll of sugar cookie dough, sliced and decorated, is my evergreen suggestion.
She scrolls through Instagram cookie photos and holds up her phone. The expertly taken photo displays an array of decorated Santas, gingerbread people, and stars.
My perennial response is, “Go for it; I’ll help.”
“I’ll find a super easy one, okay?” she says.
Maybe this year, we’ll actually bake cookies from scratch.
A cookie poem:
does my fortune cookie know “An old love will come back to you,” said my fortune on the table, but does my fortune cookie know that I’m emotionally unstable? “Learn Chinese- Expensive.” that’s the word my cookie taught but does my fortune cookie know I had to sell all I had bought? “Lucky number 41” the first number that was listed the exact amount left in my wallet now isn’t that twisted? “Lucky number 5” the number of deaths I faced, does my fortune cookie know they’ll never be erased? “Lucky number 12” the 12th glass I am drinking, does my fortune cookie know the drunk thoughts I am thinking? “An old love will come back to you,” that’s what my fortune said, but does my fortune cookie know my only love is dead? Victoria Ruth
My ninety-five-year-old mother and I took an ocean cruise together. The shift in our mother-daughter relationship was a subject in the November newsletter.
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