Noosh and I have always had an unconventional way of celebrating. Whether it be the end of a busy semester, the completion of a long assignment, the bright festivities of the holiday season, or a long-awaited birthday.
By that, of course, I mean that we hole up in our apartment with absolutely zero intention of leaving the living room, and all of our efforts are spent on ensuring the accessibility to and consumption of good food. As I type, in fact, we’re lying here on the floor, surrounded by throw pillows and knit blankets, a platter of cake and tin of sweetened cream at our fingertips, only a few small bites away from a food coma with The Man in the Iron Mask playing on the telly.
Maybe not the most celebratory of 22nd birthdays, but as far as I can tell, we’re pretty content.
“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say”
When most people think of the holidays, they consider the lingering taste of eggnog on the tongue, glittering baubles and tinsel dancing merrily among the dark greens of Christmas trees, and heaping plates of cookies waiting to be sifted through by greedy fingers.
Much of my childhood was spent the same way, with my mother baking up batches of sugar cookies in the shapes of reindeer, evergreen trees, and snowmen waiting to be frosted with brightly colored icings and sugary sprinkles. Plus, since we never did the whole Santa thing, my childhood memories of Christmas time are primarily centered around baking with mum.
Which, you know, I adore.
But, in all honesty, I’ve never been much of a non-drop-cookie person. (Drop cookies being those that you scoop out of the bowl by the spoonful and plop haphazardly on lined sheets without any regard for aesthetics.)
I don’t know what it is about it, but I don’t find the process particularly enjoyable. The consumption, yes, for sure. But having to bend down over and over to pull enormous sheets in and out of the oven, ensuring that the dough doesn’t over-warm while waiting to be rolled out, meticulously stamping said rolled-out dough with intricate cutters and transferring them with the utmost care. Childhood was always nice because mum was the one to do all the hard work, while Yusra and I were left with the not-so-greuling task of eating until our stomachs hurt. But since leaving, I’ve not been one to bake up batches of cookies for friends or myself.