The Not-So-Pampered Chef
Losing power for a few days and fleeing town in the face of an increasingly cold domicile dampened the holiday spirit around here a bit. I had planned a batch of Christmas cookies per night for all of last week and was rudely halted after Monday’s incredibly successful gingerbread cookies when the lights, and the heat, and the sense of humor and cheer all went out.
So, on Sunday, power restored, we kicked it into High Yuletide Season. Dale went to buy a tree. The Girls and I were going to make spritz cookies. What IS Christmas w/o spritz wreaths and trees and snowflakes, really? A few years ago my mom or my sister, I can’t remember which, gave me this cookie press for my birthday. It has all the right shapes in it and should be an absolute breeze to work with, coming as it does from a company that prides itself on making life easy for the working mom home cook. Unfortunately for me–it’s a total LEMON. It stinks. It has never worked quite properly and Sunday was its final outing. I’m getting rid of it. It is lucky I didn’t bash it into a bazillion pieces on the side of the counter in a fit of rage: why won’t you drop the cookies onto the sheet, little cookie press? What is wrong with you? Don’t you understand your JOB?
As I was doing this wintertime bonding activity with the children, I thought it best to restrain my urge to commit heinous assault on the entirely messed up cookie press and limited myself to “this is stupid; this doesn’t work; we aren’t going to use this again because it is so frustrating.” Which should explain why, when Dale came home with the tree, Greta said: “Dad, the cookie press isn’t working right and Mom is kinda losing her shit over here.”
Well said, kid. Well said.