Cookie Cinderella

The hours of 10:30am — 1:30 pm on December 14th had been entered into my blackberry weeks ago. I had been counting down the days and couldn’t wait to get to Jenn’s house for our annual cookie decorating extravaganza. It would be an indulgent escape during a hectic holiday time. And as the date approached, some sniffles and feigned belly aches the previous week made me nervous that our cookie decorating date wouldn’t happen. But it did and what a good one it was!

I was Cookie Cinderella and this was the ball. Christmas carols from Jenn’s iPod playlist set a festive mood. Piping and swirling, Jenn’s kitchen was the ballroom dance floor and the cookies were my gown. A 1:45 orthodontist appointment for my thirteen year old was my midnight, the time I’d be forced back to the reality of my life as a mom. But until then, I was free to create and indulge, placing squiggles on my snowflakes and lines on my candy canes — dancing with Prince charming.

Bong. . .bong. . .bong””the clock (ok, maybe just in my mind )struck 1:35 and though covered in icing, I ran out Jenn’s door, cookie trays in hand, to retrieve my son from middle school. I was soon sitting in the orthodontist’s waiting room flipping through magazines and checking messages on my blackberry while my son was getting his spacers put in — a far cry from my earlier baking bliss.

Thank you Jenn for opening your kitchen to Jackie and I (for the third year in a row!). Thank you for tinting our icing winter blue and perfect Christmas red and green. Thank you for mixing extra icing and for sharing your prize-worthy techniques.

You have proven yourself a true friend.

For without you, my icing wouldn’t have been a perfect steel grayish blue but rather baby shower blue and my red icing would have turned out pink. Alone, I wouldn’t have had the patience to decorate so many cookies (I made about six dozen!). Your presence alone instilled confidence.

Here’s a bit of proof of your invaluable tutelage: As my beautiful holiday cookies were drying on the dining room table later that day, my smirking daughter hypothesized that I must have made the cookies with Jenn. She tried to guess which ones were Jenn’s and which less-than-perfect ones were mine. I was more than thrilled to point out that she was wrong a few times!

Later that day, a few left-behind items appeared on my porch (a bowl, some sprinkles and icing tips). These simple items . . . the glass slipper of our cookie date.