By Mandappa
Aah! The glorious smell of freshly baked cookies. It presented a sniff of Christmas and a whiff of nostalgia. I’m sitting here on my dining table, looking over the first batch of cookies. I’d rate success at about 80%. It’s a little burnt. But good enough for a second try.
I have had enough of picking up cookies of fly ridden shelves in dinghy bakeries. Of cookies packed so long ago, that it doesn’t even contain the essence of Christmas. And the very packaging, a flimsy polythene, polyester or poly whatever sure takes the very joy out of Christmas cookies.
So I decided I’d make an attempt if nothing else to revive Mummy’s tradition. It usually started around the 10th of December. Every day from then until Christmas eve, Mum baked as the cousins pottered around the entire holidays. Almond cookies, chocolate cookies, Wheat, Oat and Bran cookies. Cookies with nuts, cookies with butter, cookies with chocolate chips and with every kind of possible topping. Cookies, cookies and more cookies. The smell of the continuous baking was the best part of my growing up years. As well as the best part of Christmas.
My cousins would come over. My family still lived in the ancestral house. My cousins would totter in with their folks. One by one as the holiday season began differently in different parts of the country. 35 was the number of cousins. Though usually only about 30 made it. Considering the times now, that was a huge number. In my last visit, there were 5.
None the less, back then, they were a bunch of us. A big bunch of us to be precise. We woke up, ate, played, ran, shouted, screamed, showered, punched, fought, played some more, danced, sang so on and so forth. Basically we painted town red. All the while Mum and her sisters baked. Every time we took a break from our hooliganism and stepped into the house, we were greeted with the warm whiff of baking cookies.
Times change. One by one we grew up and got busy with our own little worlds. The number of cousins kept dropping. Every one had big exams, a big promotion, a big wedding or so called better things to do.
I’ve missed it but I haven’t said much. I’ve been guilty of the same offences so there wasn’t much I could do.
The past few years, I’ve shamelessly treated my kids to plastic box cookies from plastic filled supermarkets. I’ve bought them in big plastic bags from plastic-faced bakers. My kids are happy. They never knew better.
The ancestral house is gone. So is Mum and most of her sisters.
For a change and for what it’s worth I decided to bake cookies this year. Busy schedules not with standing, I shopped for ingredients. Brought home the recipe and started a fresh this morning. Not knowing where it would go from there.
Until my 8 year old son came running in from the garden, hugged me and asked, “Mummy, what’s that smell?” I smiled with tears in my eyes and said, “That’s the smell of Christmas, darling.”