Cookies That Look Like Shit

I remember Christmas baking like it’s one of those things where you convince yourself it might work just because someone competent is there. Lena actually knew what she was doing. Janos came along for the ride. Thang helped knead the dough while we mixed schnaps into coffee and stood around drinking it. Chris Rea played in the background. December doesn’t give you a choice about Chris Rea.

We shaped these little crescents and felt genuinely confident about them. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and orange and whatever we’d poured into that coffee. Lena had to leave for the gym, which should have been my warning—the moment the competent person leaves is the moment you realize you’re actually on your own. But we didn’t notice. We threw the tray in the oven and settled in with Home Alone, a movie I’d seen so many times I barely paid attention to it.

By the time Kevin got to New York, the kitchen was thick with smoke. I opened the oven and just stared at what we’d made. Not brown. Black. Completely charred. They looked like shit—genuinely, unmistakably shit. Little nuggets of pure failure sitting on a tray. Nobody said anything. We all just looked at what we’d accomplished.

That’s when you find out what you’re actually made of. We called the place we trusted and ordered a full meal for four. Sat on the floor with the windows open, Home Alone still playing, and ate it all without irony. Better than anything that came out of that oven. Sometimes the best meal is the one you don’t cook.