For some, the holidays are a time of peace. A time to reflect on special stuff, family stuff. A time to recall the little things that made Grandma so sweet.
This year the holidays gave me a wallop by way of a sudden and tremendous recognition that my Grandma, all four feet ten inches of her, was an ass-kicking strong man in disguise. She was strong, not as in, wow, she overcame so much when she moved to this country with nothing more than the snow in which she’d walk both ways up hill to her destinations.
No, I’m talking strong as in, this is an actual un-retouched picture of my Grandmother, taken long ago in the old days–
(Anyone know what happens when you call up the spirit of Jack Lalanne twice in four months? I’m guessing it means I can skip the gym today, right?)
Anyway, Grandma was strong. I base this retrospective assessment on a recent attempt to recreate a recipe from our ancestry for my daughter’s class assignment.
Recipe? Said I. Oh no, we can do better — we’ve got the actual cookie press from my little old cookie-making Grandmother.
Note: The 2000 in the name refers to number of humans on the earth at the time this was manufactured.
My grandma made cookies with this gem, which is basically a caulking gun for the kitchen. The dough goes in one end and, with the ease that one would birth a thirteen-pound baby, out pops the cookies.
My children, not yet being of cookie-bearing age, left the toiling to me, though they did step in to add a teaspoon or twelve of sugar to the globs that I managed to produce.
In the end all I got for my efforts, for those hours of shoulder-twisting wrist-jarring pain, was a lousy batch of sugar cookies. That’s like going through 3 days of back labor to birth a dart frog. Cute, yes. Sweet, sure. Just not exactly what I had in mind going in.
Things were tough in the old days.
Maybe sugar cookies were all that they knew.
Maybe Grandma didn’t have easy access to chocolate.
But I do.
Chocolate is the best.
And it never makes me work this hard.