Page 3: Cookies
There’s something about Christmas that makes cookies extra special. They always taste better in December than they do any other time of the year, even when the recipe is duplicated exactly. And they always look better, for whatever reason.
Eden’s favorite Christmas memories are when she and her foster mother used to bake together. Cookie cutters, red and green sprinkles, crushed candy canes, gingerbread, sugar cookie dough, and white icing mean that it’s the holidays, just as much as tinsel and lights.
She can tell that Abdiel doesn’t understand why she insists he help her in the kitchen. He doesn’t mind, of course. He indulges her, spoils her really. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her, nothing he wouldn’t give her. She tries not to take advantage of his selflessness. It feels good to finally be able to give something back to him.
“I’ve already done the hard work,” she tells him. “I called you in for the fun part.”
“You sure you want me here for this? I’m really not a good cook.”
“You’re an artist. You’re going to help me decorate these cookies.”
He’s not as clueless in the kitchen as Andre, who’d never so much as turned on a stove burner before, but Abdiel is clearly out of his element. He starts off tentatively, the way an artist would with a brand new medium, testing the flow rate of the sprinkles, figuring out how much pressure needs to be applied to the icing bag in order to dispense a steady stream. But before long he’s really getting into it, trying new designs and experimenting, and smiling at his results.
“It smells so good in here,” he comments idly, as he finishes drawing an astonished expression on a gingerbread man’s face. “This is really fun.”
“This is my favorite part of Christmas,” Eden tells him, as she takes a pan of finished sugar cookies out of the oven. She tries hard not to think about Holly, about how she and her mother would do this together every year. It’s not the same without her . . . but it doesn’t hurt as much as Eden was afraid it would, and it’s not at all lonely, not with her brother there.
Abdiel’s expression has fallen slightly. Eden’s not sure if it’s because he guessed her thoughts or if he’s bothered because that was another one of those little things that he didn’t even know about his own sister. He realizes that Eden’s picked up on his change in mood when their eyes meet and they both look away from each other, in sorrow and guilt.
But the moment passes quickly, because there are still lots of cookies to be decorated and the kitchen still smells like heaven.
“When can we eat these?” Abdiel wants to know, and Eden smiles, remembering how that always used to be the question she would ask.
She gives the answer that her mother always gave her. “Whenever we want.”
The bite that Abdiel takes out of his gingerbread man’s head really completes its panicked look. Laughter fills the kitchen.
