The Christmas Cookie
So I'm sitting here at my desk trying to think what I should write about, because I enjoyed having written again last night, but nothing's coming to me, so I'm just writing about not having anything to write about, and I keep having to go back and capitalize the I's because I keep missing the shift key when I type it. Maybe that means I've got some sort of subconscious inferiority complex, or maybe my neural pathways are degenerating, or maybe I just haven't typed very much lately and I suck at it.
Anyway, I've got this Christmas cookie sitting on my desk. By Christmas cookie, I don't mean that it was baked into some sort of festive shape or anything, just that it's been sitting here since Christmas. It was some sort of gift cookie that came in an interesting box, and we saw it at the store and thought, "well, we can get a couple of boxes of those, and, if we forget anybody's gift, we'll just give them some cookies and pretend that we didn't really forget them after all." As it turned out, we just kept the cookies and wound up eating them ourselves... well, all but one.
We had white chocolate and mint chocolate versions of these cookies. (according to some show I saw on cable TV while visiting my parents' house, white chocolate is not truly chocolate at all, but I still like it and refuse to call it "congealed cocoa butter" much the same as I refuse to call "sparkling white wine" anything other than champagne) (cable TV is pretty cool) (Liz said I had to choose 2 of the following 3: Netflix, Cable TV, or Warcraft) (Cable TV lost) (I think it was Food Network that said the thing about the chocolate) (I am so glad that I live in an age when we actually have a network dedicated to nothing but food) (Like in the 70's we had to choose between the Lawrence Welk Show, Watergate coverage, and shooting the ants that lived in the bathroom with the watergun I got at the Ponchos gift shop) (Ponchos rocked) (Tortillas, deep fried and rolled in sugar, served with honey, oh yeah)
Anyway, the Christmas cookies somehow wound up on my computer desk, and I became their guardian. The mint chocolate cookies were a big hit. The baby, in particular, loved them. The only problem was that their dark chocolate coating melted instantly on contact with human skin, leaving the infant in such a state that suggested a wacky oil-change mishap. I tried to encourage her to partake of the "white chocolate" versions of the cookies which seemed to be composed of some sort of weather-resistant ivory coating around their crunchy innards, but she would have none of it. As you might guess, the cookie that sits to this day on my computer desk was one that I offered her, and, having tasted it, she rejected. Now a stronger-willed or more pragmatic parent would probably have muttered something about wasting food and popped it in their mouth, storing away the rich, fatty nutrients for the coming economic depression that gnaws hungrily at the fringe of every prosperous civilization, muttering dark prophesies of loss and despair. Me, on the other hand, just gave the slimy white blob of congealed cocoa butter a look of disgust and dropped it somewhere between my monitor and keyboard. I gave the baby one of the last mint chocolate cookies and nudged her quietly in the direction of her mother.
There it lays, snuggled between my Wacom pen and the MP3 player that saw me faithfully through art school and no further. It would take me 2 seconds to pick it up and throw it in the waste bin under my desk. For that matter, it would have taken me 1 second to do that in the first place. I should do that right now. Why do I hesitate? Perhaps because I have now written of it, granting it some importance beyond that normally due to a cookie that no one wanted. Perhaps it is because it is the last, and when it is gone, Christmas will be gone too, swept away and lost to dimming memory, clouded and obscured by the eternally bright glow of childish faith in the unknown and unknowable. The Mythic figure in the red velvet coat that knocked upon the door on Christmas Eve, sending us scurrying to our rooms to hide, lest we catch sight of him and break the spell, losing forever the Gift of Christmas and becoming as mundane as the adults who were allowed to see him but no longer wanted him to bring them any toys. Maybe I should eat the cookie.
That's pretty gross.
I pick it up. It smells good. You don't really think about the smell of chocolate. The taste is what we know. The taste is the essence of the thing. We would love it if it were blue, or red, or even white, as in this case it is, so long as it tasted like chocolate. The taste is the thing. It looks kinda dusty. Now I pretty much have to eat it, having written myself into this corner. maybe I'll just bite off an edge or something. I ate part of a crayon once, because it was funny at the time. That wasn't so bad. How bad could an old cookie be? I stole the stopwatch at the restaurant that you were supposed to time your waitperson with so you could get a free meal if they didn't get it to you in time. I harbored few illusions about whose paycheck the price of the meal would come from, so I stole the stopwatch. I don't steal things, I don't curse... unless it's really funny, or it makes a point about the way things should be. I think I've finally thought of something that I like about myself.
I stole a stopwatch once... and I just ate the last Christmas cookie.
I really need something to drink...
Anyway, I've got this Christmas cookie sitting on my desk. By Christmas cookie, I don't mean that it was baked into some sort of festive shape or anything, just that it's been sitting here since Christmas. It was some sort of gift cookie that came in an interesting box, and we saw it at the store and thought, "well, we can get a couple of boxes of those, and, if we forget anybody's gift, we'll just give them some cookies and pretend that we didn't really forget them after all." As it turned out, we just kept the cookies and wound up eating them ourselves... well, all but one.
We had white chocolate and mint chocolate versions of these cookies. (according to some show I saw on cable TV while visiting my parents' house, white chocolate is not truly chocolate at all, but I still like it and refuse to call it "congealed cocoa butter" much the same as I refuse to call "sparkling white wine" anything other than champagne) (cable TV is pretty cool) (Liz said I had to choose 2 of the following 3: Netflix, Cable TV, or Warcraft) (Cable TV lost) (I think it was Food Network that said the thing about the chocolate) (I am so glad that I live in an age when we actually have a network dedicated to nothing but food) (Like in the 70's we had to choose between the Lawrence Welk Show, Watergate coverage, and shooting the ants that lived in the bathroom with the watergun I got at the Ponchos gift shop) (Ponchos rocked) (Tortillas, deep fried and rolled in sugar, served with honey, oh yeah)
Anyway, the Christmas cookies somehow wound up on my computer desk, and I became their guardian. The mint chocolate cookies were a big hit. The baby, in particular, loved them. The only problem was that their dark chocolate coating melted instantly on contact with human skin, leaving the infant in such a state that suggested a wacky oil-change mishap. I tried to encourage her to partake of the "white chocolate" versions of the cookies which seemed to be composed of some sort of weather-resistant ivory coating around their crunchy innards, but she would have none of it. As you might guess, the cookie that sits to this day on my computer desk was one that I offered her, and, having tasted it, she rejected. Now a stronger-willed or more pragmatic parent would probably have muttered something about wasting food and popped it in their mouth, storing away the rich, fatty nutrients for the coming economic depression that gnaws hungrily at the fringe of every prosperous civilization, muttering dark prophesies of loss and despair. Me, on the other hand, just gave the slimy white blob of congealed cocoa butter a look of disgust and dropped it somewhere between my monitor and keyboard. I gave the baby one of the last mint chocolate cookies and nudged her quietly in the direction of her mother.
There it lays, snuggled between my Wacom pen and the MP3 player that saw me faithfully through art school and no further. It would take me 2 seconds to pick it up and throw it in the waste bin under my desk. For that matter, it would have taken me 1 second to do that in the first place. I should do that right now. Why do I hesitate? Perhaps because I have now written of it, granting it some importance beyond that normally due to a cookie that no one wanted. Perhaps it is because it is the last, and when it is gone, Christmas will be gone too, swept away and lost to dimming memory, clouded and obscured by the eternally bright glow of childish faith in the unknown and unknowable. The Mythic figure in the red velvet coat that knocked upon the door on Christmas Eve, sending us scurrying to our rooms to hide, lest we catch sight of him and break the spell, losing forever the Gift of Christmas and becoming as mundane as the adults who were allowed to see him but no longer wanted him to bring them any toys. Maybe I should eat the cookie.
That's pretty gross.
I pick it up. It smells good. You don't really think about the smell of chocolate. The taste is what we know. The taste is the essence of the thing. We would love it if it were blue, or red, or even white, as in this case it is, so long as it tasted like chocolate. The taste is the thing. It looks kinda dusty. Now I pretty much have to eat it, having written myself into this corner. maybe I'll just bite off an edge or something. I ate part of a crayon once, because it was funny at the time. That wasn't so bad. How bad could an old cookie be? I stole the stopwatch at the restaurant that you were supposed to time your waitperson with so you could get a free meal if they didn't get it to you in time. I harbored few illusions about whose paycheck the price of the meal would come from, so I stole the stopwatch. I don't steal things, I don't curse... unless it's really funny, or it makes a point about the way things should be. I think I've finally thought of something that I like about myself.
I stole a stopwatch once... and I just ate the last Christmas cookie.
I really need something to drink...
posted by Wormius at 5:47 PM
3 Comments:
Good stuff. Glad you're writing again. I think you just fulfilled an ancient prophecy that said something about "And when the Christmas cookie is gone, the doorway to the netherworld shall open and the sky shall become as dark as chocolate (we're talking really rich, high cocoa solids chocolate here), and the destiny that was long ago set in motion shall resume its course."
It was one of the few prophecies with a parenthetical.
The only drink to have with a Christmas anything is a glass of sherry. Plus if you drink enough of them you'll forget that you just ate a cookie that had sat in your desk dust for three months.
All I had was a bottle of Gatorade, but it worked. The cookie tasted kinda like an old mattress.
Haven't noticed any appocalyptic consequences yet... yet.
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