lstokes
12-11-2002, 03:52 PM
Nanny’s cookie cutters were kept in an aluminum tin, nestled securely in one of her deep cupboards. Hers were not the cookie cutters of today with Rubbermaid comfort grips or name-brand spring-loaded gadgets. These were simple, made of tin, with a handle for pressing into the dough.
When I was a little girl, Nanny always invited me over on the night that “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and “Frosty the Snowman” aired. I would spend the night with her in her tiny duplex apartment — and we would make Christmas cookies.
Nanny was not one to stand on ceremony, so our cookies did not have to be beautiful. The only rule was that we have fun making them. I kept one eye on the television and one on Nanny as she rolled out the dough. When the time was right, she would take down the tin of cookie cutters, and the show would be on the road.
We would cut out all manner of Christmas shapes, but the fun really began when Nanny brought out the sprinkles. Before the days of Martha Stewart, sanding sugars and nonpareils, Nanny kept a vast supply of supermarket sprinkles. There were red, green, chocolate, round-shaped, tube-shaped, bullet-shaped — you name it. She had the grandest supply of sprinkles known to man. When all was said and done, a dazzling array of sparkly, shiny Santas, bells, reindeer and angels adorned the modest kitchen table.
After the last touches were put on the cookies, it was time for bed. And bedtime at Nanny’s house was the highlight of any evening. In the days before she succumbed to central heating, Nanny’s specialties were gas space heaters and electric blankets. She’d crank the blanket as high as it would go, and while our cheeks were nippy and noses red, the rest of our bodies were snuggled close and warm. With the sound of KKAS, the local AM radio station, humming softly on the nightstand, we’d talk for hours and then slowly, unhurriedly drift off to sleep.
What I wouldn’t give for just one more cold December night with my Nanny. I would keep both eyes on her and pay attention to how she rolled out her dough; I would ask for her recipe; I would snuggle with her so tightly under the warmth of that old electric blanket; I would lie awake all night memorizing her sweet face.
I recall our last Christmas together. My mom, Nanny, Nanny’s dear friend Zera Lee and I all piled into my mom’s small car to look at Christmas lights. We drove for miles and for hours. We journeyed to the best-lit cities in East Texas singing every Christmas carol we knew, but I don’t remember any lights.
All I remember is Nanny’s voice coming to me from the back seat. Her voice was loud and clear in my ears. She wasn’t just singing Christmas carols, she was singing praises to the One to whom she’d recently given her heart. And there was a sound I’d never before heard from her — a sound of quiet calm, of peace.
It’s a sound I’ll never forget. I remember turning to look at her, frail in her cancer. Her wig was crooked and she was cramped in the tiny back seat, but I saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes as she smiled at me, closed her eyes and sang louder. We connected then, like never before. It was a sweet, tender moment that I will treasure always.
I miss her the most at Christmas. This year when “Rudolph” and “Frosty” come on, I think I will put on Nanny’s old apron and bake some cookies with sprinkles. I won’t mind if they aren’t picture-perfect; I’ll just take pleasure in the baking and decorating. After all, isn’t it always the sweet, simple moments that become the most treasured?
When I was a little girl, Nanny always invited me over on the night that “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and “Frosty the Snowman” aired. I would spend the night with her in her tiny duplex apartment — and we would make Christmas cookies.
Nanny was not one to stand on ceremony, so our cookies did not have to be beautiful. The only rule was that we have fun making them. I kept one eye on the television and one on Nanny as she rolled out the dough. When the time was right, she would take down the tin of cookie cutters, and the show would be on the road.
We would cut out all manner of Christmas shapes, but the fun really began when Nanny brought out the sprinkles. Before the days of Martha Stewart, sanding sugars and nonpareils, Nanny kept a vast supply of supermarket sprinkles. There were red, green, chocolate, round-shaped, tube-shaped, bullet-shaped — you name it. She had the grandest supply of sprinkles known to man. When all was said and done, a dazzling array of sparkly, shiny Santas, bells, reindeer and angels adorned the modest kitchen table.
After the last touches were put on the cookies, it was time for bed. And bedtime at Nanny’s house was the highlight of any evening. In the days before she succumbed to central heating, Nanny’s specialties were gas space heaters and electric blankets. She’d crank the blanket as high as it would go, and while our cheeks were nippy and noses red, the rest of our bodies were snuggled close and warm. With the sound of KKAS, the local AM radio station, humming softly on the nightstand, we’d talk for hours and then slowly, unhurriedly drift off to sleep.
What I wouldn’t give for just one more cold December night with my Nanny. I would keep both eyes on her and pay attention to how she rolled out her dough; I would ask for her recipe; I would snuggle with her so tightly under the warmth of that old electric blanket; I would lie awake all night memorizing her sweet face.
I recall our last Christmas together. My mom, Nanny, Nanny’s dear friend Zera Lee and I all piled into my mom’s small car to look at Christmas lights. We drove for miles and for hours. We journeyed to the best-lit cities in East Texas singing every Christmas carol we knew, but I don’t remember any lights.
All I remember is Nanny’s voice coming to me from the back seat. Her voice was loud and clear in my ears. She wasn’t just singing Christmas carols, she was singing praises to the One to whom she’d recently given her heart. And there was a sound I’d never before heard from her — a sound of quiet calm, of peace.
It’s a sound I’ll never forget. I remember turning to look at her, frail in her cancer. Her wig was crooked and she was cramped in the tiny back seat, but I saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes as she smiled at me, closed her eyes and sang louder. We connected then, like never before. It was a sweet, tender moment that I will treasure always.
I miss her the most at Christmas. This year when “Rudolph” and “Frosty” come on, I think I will put on Nanny’s old apron and bake some cookies with sprinkles. I won’t mind if they aren’t picture-perfect; I’ll just take pleasure in the baking and decorating. After all, isn’t it always the sweet, simple moments that become the most treasured?