Once a year, all of us bring our measuring cups, spoons and mixers and go to my daughter’s house.
We land like the plague of locusts. Not one corner of the kitchen is spared; to sift or not to sift, that is the question. We mix, stir, chill, bake, and decorate every cookie that spills forth from the oven. Martha Stewart, move over — it’s Christmas and we are baking cookies.
The sugar cookies cool until we frost, sprinkle and store every last one away until Christmas Eve. Then the insanity of Christmas passes, and my daughter throws all leftovers away. I long ago stopped agonizing about this. It does no good. Sometime after the holidays, she steps on the bathroom scales and all leftover cookies are thrown out.
This is Monday and no matter what happens, it’s trash day. In keeping with holiday tradition, the carcass of the Thanksgiving turkey is lifted from the freezer. It became the basis for delicious soup with vegetables as only turkey carcasses can do.
Cooled overnight, it’s wrapped in freezer paper and sits in the trash barrel in the driveway. The lid is slightly ajar. It should be safe since it is wrapped well.
Unless you have a golden retriever come by, whose nose is educated to sniff and retrieve. He’s without a leash but the mistress not far away has a harness suitable for a horse. But she hasn’t a clue that he’s craving the carcass of a duck or wild game, and his sensitive nose has found our deposit and is hastily tearing that package from the barrel. He’s found a prize.
“Oh, no!” we chorus as he grabs the entire carcass. His mistress realizes what he’s done. “Drop it,” she commands. But he’s standing firm, salivating over this treasure he’s about to enjoy. She drops the harness deftly about his body. She yells, “Let go, let go!” But his single-minded effort is to obtain the carcass and run somewhere and devour the whole thing.
We crowd around the living room window. We try not to be seen, but we cannot look away. Our beagle howls “Oowoo!” from upstairs watching and wanting to participate in what she sees.
I begin to think the retriever has won when his mistress stands firmly, grabs the carcass with both hands and gives a mighty tug. She extracts the carcass but loses her balance.
The dog looks down at her in surprise as she sits with the carcass in her hands. She yanks it from the dog’s mouth, leaving one leg and part of the back peeking from his lips.
She picks up the remainder of the mess and thrusts it into the garbage barrel, slamming the lid shut. The dog looks cheated with the morsel he has left. She tugs him away and reluctantly he goes down the street.
Even our beagle is chastened by what she sees. We finish the cookies and pack them away. One of us begins to giggle and then all join in uproariously. This will be the year of the turkey in the trash.
We pack cookies into cellophane bags, twelve each in eight bags, ready for the cookie exchange tomorrow night.
That’s another story.
