Ginger Krinkles (6 page)

I was out of the mood to bake by the time I got home. My coffee was cold, and I was daydreaming about one day having enough money to try Kopi Luwak coffee. There was so much missing from my life I didn’t deserve a stray thought about plunking down cold hard cash on coffee beans that have been eaten, then, PR alert, “
Naturally fermented in the stomach
” before being pooped out by some kind of Asian cat. As a former PR minion, I tip my hat, but as with the artichoke, I did wonder who first discovered that delicacy.

“Why can’t you do something like that, Ming?”

I hit the floorboard, no Ming. I put the groceries away, and muted the day’s piss poor meditation, W
hat do you hope to discover? Can you go out on a limb?
I hopped in the shower. Mid-shampoo I had a horrifying flash of leaving my door open for a few minutes before I went to the store. I jumped out of the shower and threw on a T-shirt and a pair of old yoga pants entirely sequined with cat hair. “Ming? Ming?” There weren’t that many places she could be. She wasn’t under the bed, on top of the refrigerator, in the bookshelf, or laying on my bathroom towel on the floor. I felt like coughing up a hairball.

I ran outside, and began calling for her. That she-devil knows her name, but never, not once, ever came when I called her. I don’t know why I thought it would work randomly, outside, where she could be anywhere. I ran back inside and came back out with a can of food. I stood still and held my breath and pulled up the lid, a small hiss released the pressurized vacuum and a whiff of meaty goodness. I ordered my brain to ramp up my ear canals. I thought I heard something. I ran a few houses down.

“Ming? Come on, girl.” I definitely heard a meow. I looked up. Classic. I set the food on the ground. She sneered down at me from her branch, and settled in so comfortably she looked like she could be laying an egg.

I pushed Olive’s black garbage can next to the tree, kicked off my flip flops and shimmied myself on top of it. A sturdy branch was just above my hip bone. Using both hands, I lifted myself up, but my heels pushed too hard and flipped over the garbage can. I had a scary moment before I was able to execute a sideways turn to sit on the branch. I used to love climbing trees. That was before I gave a fig about Newton’s “the bigger you are the harder you fall” discovery. Ming was about five feet from me, on the opposite side of the tree. I hugged the trunk and carefully made my way to my feet. I reached my hand out and could almost touch her nose. “Come on, Ming. Let’s go home.” She sniffed at my hand. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t hold her and climb down. I inched closer. She ducked under my hand and climbed down out of the tree.

“Thanks, Ming. Don’t worry about me. Good job.” I looked down. It seemed farther than I remembered. My legs didn’t obey my command to bend and sit back down on the branch. I hugged the tree like a long lost lover. A kid rode by on his skateboard. “Help!” He actually stopped and looked up. “I’m stuck. Can you maybe help me get down?”

He got off his skateboard while I was still talking. “I was after my cat, and it’s just so much scarier going down. I don’t want to jump that far. Will you push the trash can back? Please?”

“Hang on,” he said. He whipped out his phone, put it on speaker and called 911. “Yeah, there’s some lady up in a tree. Says she can’t get down.”

“I’m just scared. I could get down if you helped me. You don’t need to call 911. Seriously. Just move the garbage can underneath me.” My arms were frozen around the tree.

“Can you tell the approximate age of the female? Is she injured, or about to fall?” His iPhone squawked.

“She’s, like, kind of old. Thirty?”

“Twenty-eight!” Eff you very much.

“I don’t know if she’s homeless, her clothes are kind of raggy.”

“I’m not homeless,” I hollered. “I live right over there.” I couldn’t point. “I just got out of the shower to try to find my cat.”

“Sir, Sir? Please stand away from the tree and keep yourself at a safe distance. Does the victim appear to be a danger to herself, or anyone else?”

“I’m stuck in a tree! That’s all! I’m not going to hurt anyone!”

“Please let the victim know help is on the way. Please stand clear and do not go near her.”

“Roger that.”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just can’t get down.”

My knight in shining armor waited to take pictures until the firemen arrived with their ladder. Actually, he took video and sent it into the local news station. And probably put it on YouTube; I haven’t bothered to look. And I even thanked him. Did you know, in the light from the firemen’s truck, you could see right through my yoga pants?

“I am so sorry, guys,” I told the biceps of the fireman who guided me down the ladder. I barely noticed the other fireman, Robert, except to note that he had wavy gray hair and probably went to the same elementary school as Ming’s Father Time vet. And was his teacher.

“No worries, Ma’am,” said the cute one. Ma’am. Geez. My impulse to flirt fizzled. The sun was setting and as I touched terra firma, he flashed his light down, reflecting back the glowing eye holes of the Succubus. Tail in the air, she rubbed herself around my ankles. The firemen were charmed.

“I don’t know what you think you are up to, Ming. She’s never done this. I can’t believe she got out. I feel so stupid.” I had my arms crossed over my chest, then bent down to pick her up. “Thank you.”

“Your tax dollars hard at work,” said Robert Fireman, Sr. Whose eyes twinkled.

His partner, my hero, didn’t even look at me in the eye as he nodded. “You take care, now.” Then he reached in and petted Ming. I could feel Ming’s claws digging into my arm. Maybe she trying to signal to me to ask him out.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Brendon,” he said, jerking back his fingers, which had been chuffing under Ming’s throat. “Good luck. My girlfriend loves cats.”

Some people. I grabbed the cat food, and on shaky legs, headed back to my apartment, just as Olive stuck her head out.

“I’m fine, Olive. This darn cat.”

She stepped out to pet her. “Oh, Ming,” Olive said, making Ming purr. “The things we have to do to protect our family. You go on inside. I’m glad everyone is all right.” She looked over my shoulder. “I’ll go thank those guys.” She shooed me toward my door.

I squeezed Ming so tightly she yowled. Tough. She deserved it. “You know, if my grandmother sent you to try to find me a beau, you know, like a veterinarian or a handsome fireman, you are doing a really, really bad job.”

($1,580.00 I certainly wasn’t going to tip the kid on the skateboard.)

Back inside, I studied the cut-out recipe again. My mom had given me all these random, disjointed notes. Let eggs reach room temperature, butter too. Pfft. Last I checked it was the twenty-first century. I put them all in a bowl and microwaved them for about ten seconds. Ding. I wiped my hands on my apron, pulled my hair up in a messy pony-tail bun, and pulled the bowl out. Hmm. The eggs looked kind of funky. Oh well. I got back into the spirit of things. I had all my ingredients lined up like tin soldiers, reporting for duty.

If you want the same results, keep doing the same thing. Ergo, I found a holiday radio station, and for once, realized the little kick you can get out of those “timeless classics” as the hot-chocolate-sipping DJ called them. Like eating your favorite cookies from when you were a kid, that your mom never makes anymore. Smells, tastes, songs, the patterns of memories were like a meditation.

I mixed and I hummed, I measured and I poured. I stirred and I scraped, and I did not take a taste. My mom used to make these sugar cookie cut-outs when we were little. I wonder when she stopped, and why? They were so light and buttery, and the frosting, oh! I kiss my fingertips, remembering. I was going to do a white bakery icing, that mirror smooth frosting that sets without sticking. I also picked up white chunky sprinkled sugar for decoration, no dyes in these homemade beauties. They would be elegant and tasteful, and everyone would think I bought them at a bakery! Or that Frankie made them. I hummed some more. I couldn’t wait the whole stinking four hours for them to be chilled. It’s not like cookie dough has an internal timer.

I floured my granite countertop, and pulled out my rolling pin. And by that, I mean the one that I borrowed from Olive. Who thought I was criticizing the security system she had installed. I had to convince her I needed it to make sugar cookie cut-outs. I took a softball-sized lump of dough and smooshed it on the counter. I rolled over it, feeling all Betty Crocker. I’m ashamed to say I may have even kicked up my right leg behind me, as if someone had been watching me. “Oh, you better watch out,” I sang along. I never knew how much fun it was to make cookies. I was going to like baking. I could just picture the amazed expression on everyone’s face. “You made these?” “YOU made these?” “You made THESE?” All of my good will and wishes poured out of my heart as I rolled and flattened the dough to a super thin sheet of
sugarbutterflour.com
. I patted the sticking bits from the rolling pin into place on the dough. My canvas awaited! Next came the fun part.

I decided to keep things simple and just used the silver star and moon cookie cutters that Olive loaned me from her collection. She also gave me a roll of parchment paper and said that was her secret to the best cookies ever. I rocked and I rolled. I hummed, to signal my intentions and let my cookies know how much love I was pouring into them. Humming is only fun if you’re the one doing it. And I was having fun. I had my brand new cookie tray on standby. The oven had dinged it’s 350 degree preheatedness ages ago. I better get a move on.

I pushed down the star into the dough, wiggled my hand like I guess I must have seen my mom do, and
voilà
. Oops. Nothing. The dough did not come up with the cookie cutter. I stopped humming. I pulled out a butter knife to peel it up to put on the cookie sheet. Hmm. The dough was really sticky. I added another mound of flour and slid my knife under the cookie, wielding it with surgical precision. I gently eased up one arm of the pointed star, but it folded in on itself. I pried it apart but then it tore. Five minutes of my life that I will never get back, I finally had the star on the cookie sheet, atop the parchment paper.

“Star” is such a strong word. It looked more like a hashtag: #IsleOfMisfits. I bravely carried on. There was no more humming. I was smelling a funky burn from my not very clean oven from old pizza cheese. Not that I was a clock watcher, but it took me twenty-eight more minutes to fill that tray. There weren’t even a dozen pieces of dough. You will note that even I, the mother of these creations, couldn’t call them stars.

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I shoved them in the oven. Maybe they will magically morph into a beautiful puffy light artisanal rustic cookie. I could be starting a new tradition of holiday icons. Maybe they’d taste so good people wouldn’t even notice the vague resemblance to a two-dimensional potato. I took a quick lick from the bowl. The dough was pretty tasty; sugar and butter, my two favorite food groups.

I sashayed around in my apron, feeling a little bit better. Used the twelve baking minutes to reposition the dough for round two. The timer went off as I felt all official, using my oven mitts to pull out the tray. Oh. If anything, they looked even smaller than when they went in, indented in the middle, with little crusty outlines around the edges that made them look like a cowboy had stepped on road apple. I set the tray on top of my stove to let them cool. I couldn’t wait to taste one. Well, actually I could. My tummy was feeling a little iffy. I looked into the bowl. Geez. This batch really didn’t make much dough. I only took a couple tastes.

Using my same butter knife that I wiped off on my apron, I pried up one cookie. It was married to the tray. As I sawed, I wished I had a trowel or some sort of scraping implement to ease it up. I know what a spatula is. Have one, too, thank you very much. It was not man enough for the job. I finally got most of the top of the cookie off intact and took a bite. I chewed and I chewed. It seems my mouth didn’t want to stop chewing because then it knew it would be expected to swallow. I had a flashback to my fourth grade history class and thought about poor soldiers fashioning some kind of dough around the end of their rifles and sticking them over open flames to cook. My cookies, and I use the term loosely, had nothing on those things.

I wiped and I swiped. It took me longer to clean up my mess than to create it. The dough stuck to the countertop as if I had been planning to grout tiles. As I chiseled at the mortar on the cookie sheet, a prisoner sentenced to hard labor, a sugar shard projectile launched skyward. Thank goodness my eyeball was there to catch it.

Combine the inefficiency of a who-cares phone store employee with the bravado of Genius Bar nerd, and meet my urgent care nurse.

“But this is a pirate patch.” I could see myself in the small mirror above the sink.

“Honey, you scratched your cornea. You put the drops in, you put that patch back on.” She handed me a miniature plastic torpedo filled with a doll-sized drop of medicine and a prescription. My good eye looked like there was no way it was going out in public with its matey.

“But, can’t I just keep my eye shut? I don’t need this. I’ll be careful.”

“Three days.”

I could feel tearing puddle under the black swath, that wasn’t entirely pain related. Cue the harp music from my meditation app. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Use all your senses to see the beauty of this moment.

I drove back home, carefully, and finished cleaning up my mess. Hopped up on espresso, squinching back more tears, I OD’d on cheesy holiday movies. Tears to break my heart sniveled down my cheeks as I watched Cinematography for Suckers, Watch It and Weep TV. Unlike every single other day of the year, there was no Elf rerun on. It didn’t matter; I cry at that, too.

($1,540.00 Co-pay.)