My Aunts Debbie and Brenda, my mom, and I went to Olbrich Gardens yesterday. It was so pretty! Mom kept intoning, "It's like a little summer in the middle of winter!" She and I can be optimistic to a fault.

Following one such statement, Brenda taunted offered from the backseat of the car,

*snort*
Middle of Winter.
Buck up, Ladies—today's the first day of winter!

That Brenda...she's always so helpful!

I took my digital camera along and snapped 110 pictures in about an hour...oh my. Last night I weeded through them, and found about 40 that turned out just charming. The rest were more of a, "I'm not paying for film so I can take pictures of strangers' feet!" statement.

My meager ability has a broad range, you see.

Below, are some of my favorites!

I've turned my cat into an internet addict. I'm not looking forward to judgement day.

And, if you can, yet again, ignore my cranky morning hairstyle, here is a picture of [my brother] Charlie's pretty Norwegian eyes.

I'm still resentful that Dad didn't see fit to share the pretty blue eye gene with me.
...
I got my "blue" eyes from my Mom...along with the screwed up half hazel one.
At least SHE knew how to share.
...
Maybe, just maybe, I'd be more of a red meat eater if he had.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel! Let's see...I left off with the fudge...

Earlier in the week, I helped Grandma make some Spritz cookies. Spritz, short for Spritzgeback, are butter cookies shaped by being squeezed through a cookie press. They are traditional Christmas cookies in the Scandinavian countries. The name is derived from spritzen, which is German for "to squirt or spray."

Ellen brought chocolate chip brownies. You just can't go wrong with chocolate chips! Notice that the bottom row of brownies is missing from the front pan: A good baker always tests the product! One bar just wouldn't have been sufficient testing...no way, no HOW!

I feel the need to inject a moment of reverent silence. I am about to discuss the Chocolate Drop Cookie. A family favorite, they are my Grandmother's pride and joy. My father has many loves in his life, but Chocolate Drop Cookies just may have been the first. Here is a picture of the bare chocolate treats. After they have cooled, an assembly line of frosters forms. Step one complete, the next phase of this cookie's preparation begins—the thumb-twiddling...the picture-taking.

After the layer of vanilla frosting has hardened, the chocolate layer is smoothed about the top. Now, most people are of the school where your layer of chocolate frosting does not obliterate your vanilla layer. This is the stylistically correct way to frost the ol' chocolate-drop. See exhibit A. The specimen on the left is the traditional way to frost. The specimen on the left is my father's idea of cloud nine. Even after the mandatory taste-testing, our yield was impressive. I am certain that we all, in one degree or another, take pride in our frosting capabilities. I am also certain that none took more pride from his over-chocolate-frosting-slathering than my father. See him pose with this trophy.

It's times like this that I am grateful that my father is not internet savvy.

He neeeeeeever has to know that his goofy posing has gone public.
*exaggerated wink*

Dear Lord, I hope that's the end of it. Just watch, I'll receive a flaming email today saying, "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU FORGOT TO MENTION....." Sorry in advance!

Cookies completed and cleanup underway, it was time for the menial tasks of the counting and the divvying of the cookies. Ellen is our champion organizer in this event, distressing as it is. Of course, even Saintly Aunt Ellen has her breaking point. Now, if only she shared Dad's avoidance of the internet. *sigh*

Mother and I clasped to one another as the tides of upset receded.

We were silent as the cookies were divided. It was the end of a very tiring day. Here, Mike counts to make sure that Dad hasn't taken extra Chocolate Drop Cookies—Michelle looks on, devastated, as Ellen collapses.

Familial bliss is a taxing war to wage.

OH!

As I've been accused of being a weight-gain enabler with all of the cookie talk,
here's an extra special treat:

This narrative's fate has been in the wind. My recollections can scarcely recite the day without the accompanying fatigue. Still, I fail to find the words. My camera, who also attended the event, has volunteered to assist in the retelling.

So there we were, a full day and an accumulation of dough before us. Grandma sat in the director's chair, reminding us—jovially, of course—that we were doing everything wrong. We've all learned to accept our ineptitude over the years.

Gathered by the front door, Ellen performed her pre-baking meditation on the right and Rose, center, stole one last minute of peace from her coffee while Grandma's assessing gaze fell upon the Norwegian Krumkake press.

Shall we run through the assortment of treats? Grab your toothbrushes and we will begin:

There were the Krumkakes. They are a Norwegian cookie, pronounced KRUME - KAH - KUH  in the singular, prepared with a decorative press and then rolled about a cylinder or cone while warm and pliable. UFF DAH—there were so many of them! But then, there were so many of all of them...

*sigh*

There were the Rosettes, another Norwegian offering. They are gorgeous cookies, but they're about 95% grease, so be kind to your belt buckles and just look at them. Perhaps take a picture or two. All you need for this low cal offering is a vat of boiling peanut oil and ornamental metal irons. Oh, and some tradition-seeped Norwegians can really sweeten the pot.

There were both melt-in-your-mouth cookies and Norwegian butter cookies. I would give them each a separate paragraph, but you can't tell them apart by sight, and the camera didn't want to mislead you. Their taste separates them, of course—the melt-in-your-mouths are much more delicious. Of course, that's the dough that I made, but I'm sure this tidbit has little bearing upon my opinion. But with these images, really, your guess is as good as mine.

Aunt Ellen brought dough for Peanut Butter Temptations—peanut butter cookie dough with a decadent little bundle of joy known as the Reese's peanut butter cup placed in the center while cooling. What's not to love!?

Here are Grandma's thumb print cookies. Three guesses why they are so named...Norwegians are well known for their imaginative use of words, you know. Uff dah, for instance, has become immortal.

Rose made cocoa fudge—peanut butter and coconut varieties also. While in infancy, the tooth-decay-agent seems innocuous and endearing. As it matures, it begins to learn the tempter's call, to break the bonds of will power. Upon reaching adulthood, the true nature of the fudge—the hardened criminal, the embodiment of evil—is fully realized. The fudge has acquired the power to sound unheeded warning bells.

Uff Dah...not done yet. I will have to return after a short recess to finish the account.

Today was our family cookie bake. It proved to be a very long day, our yield kissing the 1,000-cookie count.

Kickboxing left-hooked and jabbed me awake after my alarm sounded startlingly early. We were to arrive at my grandmother's house at 8:30. I finished my morning routine, discussed with Dad the outcome of a certain trial (and disparaged that a man should be condemned on so little definitive evidence while OJ remains a free man), and deigned to find my inner cookie-maker.

It was not an easy task. I'm not much of a cookie eater these days. I make a mean cookie—indeed, way back in the winter of 2002, I made such wonderful cookies that Miles and I felt the need to sport an extra 15 pounds to boast of their goodness. I haven't made cookies since. I'm too skilled for my own good. You shouldn't abuse your power.

Anyway, while I was eager to spend the day with my father's family, I was not so eager to spend a day in Grandma's saccharine-saturated condo.

We trudged out to the car, prepared dough and vegetable tray in hand. The cold, glum morning beckoned us to stay indoors, but my Midwestern parents have both grown immune to such inclinations...inclinations such as warmth. I had no choice but to follow, scuffing my shoes all the way.

We arrived at Grandma's, the first to do so. There were festively covered tables scattered across the rooms. Surfaces of red and green, snowmen and santas—surfaces begging to be smothered with cookies. First things first: dad prepared a pot of coffee. He and I, we haggled over the amount of coffee to add to the contraption. We compromised, giving each other dirty looks as it brewed. His gaze seemed to taunt, "You sissy. You're weak....WEAK!"

Mine returned defiantly, "Wanna make something of it, old man!?"

The family began arriving, genial and bouncy. After some requisite chatter, we rolled up our sleeves and set to cookie making! Man!—we were on fire! We danced from foot to foot as the excitement emanated from our toes, inundating the kitchen with a hyper glee. For fifteen long minutes we continued on this way, shuffling to the beat of cheer, liberating colored sugar to roam the air—when we remembered that this day of cookie making was going to require hard work.

To Be Continued...