The smell of fake pine sticks dangling from our plastic Christmas tree wafts through the air. Reggae Christmas music dances all around as my mother and I toil over Pillsbury sugar cookie dough. Another year for broken promises of making things from scratch. To our delight, no one has ever known the difference. She dumps the snowflake cookie cutters out of their tin, they clang like little bells all over the granite countertop. I have been begging her for weeks to round up all the supplies. 350 days without the smell and sound that I hold so dear to my heart. I grab the duct tape and shellac each corner of the parchment paper to the counter top, careful not to rip any of the edges. I was a pro at this point and we had our dance distilled down to a science. Years of trial and error had led us to this moment. I was meant for rolling and sprinkling; she was meant for baking and frosting. I pull out the same wooden rolling pin we have been using for the past 12 years and begin to roll the chilled fat ball of dough into something more recognizable. I am too focused on my work to notice that my mother has purposely put flour on her fingers when she touches the tip of my nose and the apples of my cheeks. I swat her hands away, knowing she will ask for a picture of me in the infamous Santa hat. I am getting too old for this.
“Only use the big ones!” she says as I reach for the various sizes of snowflakes. Every year we argue over how many of what kind we will produce. The entirety of Branchside Lane is counting on perfect pastries. I make sure the sharp edges of the cookie cutter scrape against the parchment, leaving no room for error. Eight sugary snowflakes emboss the dough. I watch as my mother carefully carves around my creation, making sure not to amputate any of the points, for that is the cardinal sin of snowflake making. Her long, beautiful fingers grip the spatula with grace and she slides each of them onto a greased cookie sheet. Everything she does is effortless. Once she is finished placing the first round into the oven, she grabs another glob of dough from the freezer and our dance starts all over again. Roll. Cut. Repeat.
“Time to frost!” she sings to me from the bottom of the staircase. There is nothing worse than waiting for cookies to cool down. I stomp my way down the stairs, knowing that I am just the sprinkler in our calculated assembly line. It takes few fine motor skills and hand eye coordination to dump a bunch of blue sprinkles onto a cookie and shake them off. My mother uses her teeth to rip off the plastic that encapsulates the Pillsbury frosting spout. She is almost eye level with the counter as she completes a few trial passes to release any compressed air pockets out of the canister. Last year it only took five passes. This year it takes seven. We work in silence, turning down our tropical christmas tunes to a low hum for maximal concentration. The frosting makes or breaks everything, especially the cookies that baked too fat to tell what they are. After a few cookies are completed and placed on the coordinated christmas tray, she stops frosting. Confused, I stopped my work as well.
“How do you feel about switching places?”
She asks me with a smirk on her face. We both know that the operation has always been about task management. My mother takes on the grunt work while I place the colorful final touches.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin them.”
Even though I am cautious, there is nothing I want more than to frost those cookies. Every year I direct all the credit to my mother as our neighbors praise us for such beautiful cookies. This year is different. I am going to get the credit. I take the canister in my hand and copy her trial runs on the paper plate and start my lines. The first cookie is extremely shaky, my pressure to movement ratio makes squiggles in the frosting.
“It will get better, just keep trying.”
My mother’s reassurance soothes me and I try again. The next cookie is better and the one after that is a carbon copy of hers. My long, beautiful fingers grip the frosting with confidence and she begins sprinkling, our roles reversed. This year I get all the credit.
“Soon you will be frosting cookies for your own children to sprinkle.”