The Great American Bake Off

This weekend was the Great American Bake Off in our house, otherwise known as Cookie Hell. I attempted in my small, galley-size kitchen to replicate the pandemonium that ensued for days on end in Los Angeles. As I measured cup after cup of flour, whipped enough butter to single-handedly raise anyone's cholesterol score by a few hundred points, and measured out copious amounts of granulated sugar, I became nostalgic about Los Angeles for the very first time since arriving in the city. Of course when I say this, I mean I became nostalgic about my neighbors, our charming, drafty house, and especially, my son's Tia, not the city at large. Performing the rituals of this holiday, decorating, baking, wrapping gifts, made the absences of those individuals who'd been a part of our lives for so many years so acute. Our Tia, who grew to delight in these tradition as much as I did, had been my stalwart right-hand woman in most of these endeavors, except the baking. So, going through these acts, albeit on a minor, scaled down version has made me miss her so very much.

As sugary confection after another came out of the oven, I did as I'd always done, placing them on cooling racks until they were cool enough to be stored into large storage bins. I thought about all the Christmases where these treats would be bagged, gift cards attached, all distributed by our son and his Tia as they made their way down our street. I learned from more than one neighbor that these bags of home made goodies had become and expectation for them during this season of giving and receiving. I suppose that is what brought on this sentimental nostalgia as I sifted flour and measured out baking soda, that this ritual would not be taken up by anyone else, that each of these neighbors, some who live alone, will feel the lack of these bags more than I could ever know.

My son and I attempted the same tradition as we walked up and down our apartment building's hallway, distributing these delicacies to neighbors, who seemed taken aback by such a sign of neighborliness.

This season has been such a strange mix of delight and wistfulness. Giddiness hits me as I walk around the city, going into stores as go about the business of shopping for family and friends. At the same time, the wistfulness of missing those that had been such a fabric of my time in Los Angeles presses down upon my chest, serving as a reminder of what had to be lost in order for what we've gained. Aha, c'est la vie!

I know, in the end, I continue these traditions as much for my son as for anyone else. It will, hopefully, be for him the touchstones of what this holiday season meant, and will continue to mean to him as he goes on with his life, creating new traditions of his own. How does the world benefit, you wonder? Well, for one, the dairy industry should be grateful that so many pounds of their precious commodity gets purchased and used during this season. Gyms should be eternally blissed since membership rates should jump within the new year after the caloric intake of this season--of which the cookies are no small portion. All in all, my little 'tradition' of baking and distributing cookies should make many more people, other than those who are the recipients, quite content by my largess.