I received a KitchenAid Mixer for Christmas this year. Excited to try it out, I decided it would be nice to whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I also remembered the gingerbread cookie dough in the extra fridge downstairs. I'd made it with the intent of spreading some holiday cheer to family and friends, but that was a week ago and my charitable feelings had since shrunken to only include the individuals within wooden spoon hitting distance. I brought the soon-to-expire dough up from the basement and set it on the counter to soften while I worked on the chocolate chip cookies. The sounds of the mixer quickly roused the sitting-dead from their television and video game stupors. As the masses swarmed into the kitchen I felt my bosom swell with motherly love and affection. I knew some family bonding was about to take place.
My Expectation: Everyone taking a turn with the new mixer, patiently.
What Actually Happened: As they got closer and I saw the demonic gleam in their eyes that only cookie dough can produce, I realized I didn't want them anywhere near my new mixer because in touching it, they would violate its purity with unclean hands and contaminate its machinery to the point of malfunction. So I created a protective bubble around my precious appliance and warned the mob to Back Off!
My Expectation: I would be generous and allow one spoonful of dough to grace the tongues of my offspring and their sire.
What Actually Happened: My children pressed around me until there was no room for me to move and I stood bent in half over my mixer. They then attempted to grab handfuls of dough—pushing, shoving, clawing—it was like zombies on a human.
My Expectation: Surely my husband would behave better than his offspring.
What Actually Happened: Shielding me from the horde, my husband pushed himself in front of me and spread his arms…subtlety reaching behind me into the mixing bowl. After that it was a free-for-all. I ended up with a scant 23 cookies.
Attempting to salvage the bonding experience, I turned to the gingerbread dough. My kids knew better than to eat it because it wasn't fresh. I sprinkled the countertop with flour and began to roll out the dough. All was going well. I lovingly invited Ian to cut out some gingerbread babies with my miniature cookie cutter.
My Expectation: My youngest and I would laugh together and create something cute and memorable.
What Actually Happened: All of the gingerbread babies ended up headless and my son laughed evilly with each decapitation.
My Expectation: My sweet Rebeka would take over and engage Ian in the proper way to cut out cookies.
What Actually Happened: She took over. Like a drill sergeant. She yelled when Ian plopped his cookie cutter in the middle of the dough instead of utilizing the space around the edges first. She yelled when he guillotined. She yelled when he shook too much flour onto the counter. She yelled when he did everything right. She yelled… a lot.
My Expectation: The gingerbread cookies would taste good.
What Actually Happened: They were dry and thick with minimal sweetness. I found some post-holiday charity and took most of the cookies to my friend, Julie. Her kids will eat anything.
