December 7, 2010
Every once in a while, something will happen to remind us feeble humans that we aren't as in control of the world around us as we would like to think we are.
That for all the technology at our disposal, we get things wrong.
Case in point, the snowstorm that wasn't.
After the schools were cancelled and everyone ran around making alternative arrangements for whatever was supposed to happen during the day, Mother Nature decided to give us all the finger and took her storm and went elsewhere to play.
On behalf of all of us who were not looking forward to shoveling ourselves out, and for my daughter who got her snow day,
Thank you Mother Nature.
Yet again, you've demonstrated the right, the privilege of women to change their minds at the last minute, just because they can.
These infernal book edits are slowly coming to an end.
Slowly.
Just a few pages left and I will say adios, hopefully permanently.
But if I learned anything out of this process, other than that I am not the writer I thought I was, it's that when it comes to publishing, never say never.
Just hope.
A lot.
The nice thing about having a snowstorm-that-never-was-but-cancelled-school-anyway, was that I was able to sit at the kitchen table the entire day and work on edits.
I even drove to where the proofreader works part time and picked up more pages, keeping me busy until around 9.00 last evening.
And because my youngest child was home with "nothing to do" I was able to successfully and unashamedly exploit her labour.
I asked her to make two double batches of shortbread cookies.
She did.
But with some compromise.
While I sat here working, and she baked herself into a shortbread cookie coma, we listened to All Emily, All the Time.
While shifting sentences and moving paragraphs, changing words and wreaking havoc with punctuation, I was regaled with every Glee soundtrack in this house, Marianna's Trench, Lady Gaga and Panic at the Disco.
That another migraine did not descend upon my poor overworked and overwrought self is still a mystery to me.
But just to be on the safe side, I was in bed and asleep by 9.30 pm.
Hence why I was up and in the shower at 5.00 am.
Now these shortbread cookies are a long standing tradition in our family.
My grandmother, my mother, me and now my girls have spent countless hours standing at the kitchen counter with full pounds of butter, flour, and other assorted ingredients to create the perfect shortbread cookie.
Rolling, forking, sprinkles, dipping in chocoate, we have perfected the making of the shortbread into an art.
For a couple of Christmases, I took orders and sold them at a friend's craft fair, but I had to stop.
It was becoming an all encompassing activity for which I made little money, and most importantly, I was starting to hate the shortbread.
Last Christmas, I made a batch to send to Mer and one for the only class I had writing an exam.
But I did donate a batch to the United Way auction held recently at STU, and I promised my Advanced Methods class a batch, so yesterday Emily made cookies.
I have been making these cookies since I was old enough to hold onto cookie dough and not shove it up my nose, in my ears, or any other available orifice on my person.
And the same is the case for my kids.
In fact, I used to give them each a bowl full of made-by-Mummy cookie dough and make them roll them out and decorate them.
And then I would mark papers and exams in ten minute bursts.
Cause that's how long it takes these buttery marvels to bake.
I had a shortbread cookie assembly line that would have made Henry Ford stand up and take notice.
All from the little hands of my small children.
Their labour only made the cookies taste better.
Another reason I have had to step back from the cookie production is because I can eat at least as many cookies as I can bake.
I carry with me the evidence to prove this.
It was very difficult yesterday to be in the same room as the most glorious of Christmas cookies were being made.
I will admit to eating one.
And it will be the only one I eat the entire holiday.
Why?
Because I figure I've eaten enough of these cookies to last me until the Christmases I experience in my next life time.
That's why.
I've had my share and the share of a small country.
No longer will I be tempted by the buttery goodness of the homemade shortbread cookie.
Even if I have to lock myself in my office until Christmas is over.
And yesterday was momentous for yet another reason.
After months and months of months of looking at my son harbouring the patchy scrub he calls a beard and sideburns dotting the landscape of his face, I was granted the pleasure of seeing his face scrubless.
He shaved.
I don't know what cosmic force brought hither such a delightful and very long overdue gift, but I am so glad it finally came.
My son is a handsome young man.
But with sideburns and a beard he just looks like someone who has forgotten how to wash his face.
But now, the smooth, cherub face I know and love has returned full force.
Making me a very happy mama.
If he would only get the bird's nest covering the top of his head cut, I would be estatic.
Title Lyric: Christmas Cookies by George Strait
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