The 12 hours after Christmas

After a five-day visit, my family has scattered back to their own homes.  It is a joy and a luxury to spend so much time with my family of origin.  For a few days, my normally quiet, relatively tidy house is transformed into a truly Saturnalian chaos-land, where young cousins laugh and run, sprinkling tortilla chip crumbs behind them, adult siblings day drink Bloody Caesars and keep the party going late into the night with our three games of choice (Texas Hold Em, Cards Against Humanity, and Wise and Otherwise), and my parents hang with their adult kids, laughing over wildly inappropriate things that parents probably shouldn’t laugh with their kids about, but whatever.  It’s awesome.  And a little exhausting.  When everyone leaves, I revel in the quiet, and then I start cleaning.  I find all sorts of strange things left behind, and this year, those things kind of organized themselves into a song.  You know the tune… Sing along!

On the first hour after Christmas, my family left for me… 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the second hour after Christmas, my family left for me…one dish of dogfood… and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the third hour after Christmas, my family left for me… a toothbrush and some toothpaste… one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the fourth hour after Christmas, my family left for me… empty bags of crumbs (like 3 or 4 of them)… a toothbrush and some toothpaste, one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the fifth hour after Christmas, my family left for me… five Keurig cups!  (No, we don’t own a Keurig.)  Empty crummy bags, toothbrush and toothpaste, one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the sixth hour after Christmas, my family left for me… ten little containers of leftovers each containing a tablespoon or less of food… five Keurig cups!  Empty crummy bags, toothbrush and toothpaste, one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the seventh hour after Christmas, my family left for me… fake pancake syrup… ten mini-leftovers… Five Keurig cups!  Empty crummy bags, toothbrush and toothpaste, one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the eighth hour after Christmas, my family left for me… four half-full juice boxes… fake pancake syrup, ten mini-leftovers… Five Keurig cups!  Empty crummy bags, toothbrush and toothpaste, one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the ninth hour after Christmas, my family left for me… three Tupperwares of potato water*… four half-full juice boxes, fake pancake syrup, ten mini-leftovers… Five Keurig cups!  Empty crummy bags, toothbrush and toothpaste, one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

(*Potato water, you ask?  The water left over from boiling potatoes.  Three large Tupperware containers full.  To be used to thicken soup.  Except my mom took the ham bone to make the soup at her house, so I’m not sure the potato water has any other use.)

On the tenth hour after Christmas, my family left for me… a jam jar full of something (milk, maybe?)… three potato waters, four half-full juice boxes, fake pancake syrup, ten mini-leftovers… Five Keurig cups!  Empty crummy bags, toothbrush and toothpaste, one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the eleventh hour after Christmas, my family left for me… a few cell phone chargers… jam jar of milk maybe, three potato waters, four half-full juice boxes, fake pancake syrup, ten mini-leftovers… Five Keurig cups!  Empty crummy bags, toothbrush and toothpaste, one dish of dogfood, and 10 extra pounds on my ass.

On the twelfth hour after Christmas, my family left for me… lots of love and happiness… a few cell phone chargers, jam jar of milk maybe, three potato waters, four half-full juice boxes, fake pancake syrup, ten mini-leftovers… Five Keurig cups!  Empty crummy bags, toothbrush and toothpaste, one dish of dogfood… and 10 extra pounds on my ass!!

Would it still be Christmas if I didn’t make cookies?

My mother makes amazing cookies. She’s a wonderful cook across the board, and while my brothers seem to have inherited more of her creative cheffiness, I got the baking thing. I make delicious, beautiful cookies. Chocolate chips, raspberry-coconut bars, oatmeal-chocolate sandwiches, sugar cookies with a hint of almond extract, walnut powdered sugar snowballs, and our traditional Hungarian family cookie, pineapple-walnut kifels. My mom’s recipes, most of them, because why mess with perfection? But I have added my own favorites over the years. Smitten Kitchen’s “World Peace” cookies. The Scandinavian almond bar recipe I snagged from my college roommate’s neighbor. And then, I also make… don’t judge me… that toffee with the saltine crackers. It is the epitome of suburban wrongness, I know, but damn, that stuff is so delicious. I just can’t help myself.

I just can’t help myself. There it is. If there are homemade cookies in the house, I will eat them. I will eat one every time I walk by the kitchen. And every time I have a meal and want a little something sweet after. And every time someone says the word “the.” I will eat them and eat them and will have to buy new pants.

So what if I just didn’t make them this year?

Just thinking about it, I feel sad. I want my kids to help me make cookies. I want them to grow up knowing how to use a rolling pin. I want them to have memories of pulling a kitchen chair up to the counter, of turning on the Kitchen Aid mixer, of learning to scrape the back of a butter knife across a measuring cup full of flour, tap tap tap tap and scrape. I want them to lick the beaters, squeeze the cookie press 1½ times to make a perfect tree, and sprinkle colored sugar and nonpareils all over my kitchen floor. When they’re old enough, I want to teach them to make my grandmother’s kifels, with the sticky, temperamental dough that requires the ruthless efficiency I inherited from her. I want their Christmas memories to include the smell of butter and sugar baking in the oven, and the taste of tradition melting in their mouths.

I would also like my ass to stop expanding.

I have so much to say about why I should make cookies. The words roll around on my tongue, like melted Scharffen Berger chocolate. The reasons not to make cookies are practical, like salad, and not even a good salad, but the sad kind of salad with the dressing on the side, where you dip your fork into the dressing to save a few more calories. If I only had the self-control, it would be a no-brainer.

But, you see, I don’t. I can have a lot of things in the house. Oreos, Reese’s cups, brownies (from a box or from the grocery store… from-scratch brownies don’t last long around me). I can have things in the house that are sweet and naughty, and most of the time, I don’t really want them. Because, truthfully, they’re not that good. I mean, Reese’s cups are pretty good, but not, like, my mom’s chocolate chip cookies good. Not like little miniature pineapple pastry good. Not like two oatmeal cookies glued together with chocolate good.

My relationship with food is complicated, clearly. It means home, and love, and tradition, and family to me. As I chop up vegetables for yet another salad in hopes of saying goodbye to the plus sizes, or finally ditching that "2" in the first digit on the scale, I wonder if I am doing my kids a disservice by passing along a tradition of butter and sugar and white flour.

But when I think about what I want them to learn from me, in the end, I hope they learn that life is for living, fully and fearlessly and with passion. For savoring, and baking, and family, and joy, and love.

And cookies. But hopefully not too many.