Around my house Christmas is all about food, and while Mrs. Claus doesn’t spend all her time baking cookies that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know her way around a kitchen. Over the next few days I’d like to share some of Mrs. Claus’ favourite recipes with you! Each one of these recipes is written in the voice of one of the incarnations of Mrs. Claus from my latest anthology, Mrs. Claus: Not the Fairy Tale They Say.
This one isn’t really a recipe. Michael tells me that neither he nor his character know anything about baking so a recipe wasn’t going to happen… but this letter from one character to another about cookie dough did happen, and it’s pretty tasty in a whole different kind of way 😉
Raw Clumps of Heavenly Cookie Dough
by Miss ‘Lil Toehead of “Miss ‘Lil Toe Head” by Michael Leonberger
That’s cheesy, right?
Cheesy way to begin a letter. Because love is stupid. I get that. You’d tell me that.
And anyway, I wouldn’t say I love you.
Well, I would say it. Just not to you. Not to anyone I actually cared about.
I think it, though. At least all the time, in fact, but if I told you…
It’s just, I’m afraid you’d look at me with eyes that were a little less joyful. Which would mean you’d still have incurably joyful eyes, but the way you look at me now is so happy…it almost hurts.
And I need that.
I love that, actually, and without it…
No. I wouldn’t tell you.
Which is why I won’t be sending this letter to you. I’m going to keep it. Close, alone. Secret. That’s where you’re supposed to keep the things you care about. Sometimes they can warm you and only you. Just know I care about you, and that’s why I’m not going to tell you.
Anyway, what was I writing to you about? Cookie recipe. You texted me and wanted to know if I had anything good.
I don’t. Because I don’t know anything about cooking, but I also don’t have any of the ingredients.
I mean, the first ingredient is time, which we both don’t have enough of. Not together, at least. Less so if I told you I loved you, and then you were really gone, right?
So scratch that.
The next would be money, which we’re out of, too.
People try to distance themselves from it, anyway. They use time, and money, and fancy sugary treats, to distance themselves from it all the time. But you and I don’t have that luxury.
Distance themselves from what? You’d ask with a smile.
Oh, you know. Death. Is what I would say.
Only I wouldn’t say that out loud. I’d kiss you instead. Because I want you to keep that warmth for me there, in your eyes. Selfish me. I need to warm myself by the blaze in your eyes, and you’re not here, and it’s Christmas, and it’s so cold.
And I miss you.
What were we talking about? Cookies.
So, without time, and without money, I’m going to tell you this: just get cookie dough.
Raw clumps of heavenly cookie dough.
Literally steal it if you have to, I don’t care.
That’s what I’m going to do after this letter. I’m going to text you that I don’t know how to make cookies…because I don’t. But I’m going to try something for you. I’m going to get some cookie dough, and at least one spoon, and I think we can start there.
You’ll laugh, and it’ll be a novelty, right? My lazy affection, from the girl who couldn’t bake you cookies and so just got you cookie dough. It’ll be just as perfectly mediocre as we need. As I need you to think my feelings for you are. Perfectly mediocre and perfectly safe.
Yes. Cookie dough. That’s what we’ll be eating next time I see you.
But the thing about it is I actually love raw cookie dough more than I love baked cookies.
I love it.
And I’d give mine all to you.
Loving You and Missing You,
Your Miss ‘Lil Toe Head
Excerpt from “Miss ‘Lil Toe Head” by Michael Leonberger:
Dad always lit up when I came down. Sat me on a bench and called me his little elf. The warm, electric smell of sawdust flittering through the air is something I can’t handle.
The way the sawdust settled in the blood that day is something I’ll never forget.
The way he was screaming, after the saw ate through his arm.
The fact that I now know he was lying.
His smiles of relief when it was all said and done, his brow spotted with sweat and those sleepy, dopy smiles, because it was gone. His arm.
It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone…
Because he’d made it seem like an accident. Like he accidentally sawed his own arm off.
But I know the truth.
It was no accident.