Everything Burns Eventually

Chris Rea was driving home for Christmas on the speakers—same as every year—while the four of us kneaded dough and steadily poisoned ourselves with a cinnamon-orange schnapps mixture that kept getting stronger with each refill. Lena, Paul’s girlfriend, was the only one who actually knew what she was doing, whether from years of practice or from watching too many cooking shows. Janos, the self-appointed music editor, contributed mostly opinions. Thang, who materialized at some point from wherever Thang usually materialized from, contributed mostly chaos. I mixed things and tried to look useful.

We got the little half-moon shapes into the oven feeling cautiously proud of ourselves. Then Lena left for the gym, and the three of us were alone—unmonitored, slightly drunk—with a preheated oven and a copy of Home Alone 2 in the BluRay player. You can probably see where this is going. By the time Kevin reached New York, a thick fog had found its way into the hallway. We noticed it. We acknowledged it. We kept watching.

After two full hours—two—the cookies had become scorched little monuments to male incompetence. They didn’t smell like food. They no longer resembled food. What do you do in a situation like that? You call the delivery service, obviously. Order the complete Christmas menu for four. Wait thirty minutes. Eat extremely well despite everything. And honestly—it was great.