The Christmas Cookie Heist
“Mom, is there room in your freezer for this baking?” daughter, Azalea, asks early in December, “I need them for a party on the 18th, but my freezer is full.”
“Oh yum!” my mouth salivates as I tuck the ice cream bucket in the corner of the chest freezer, “these Monster Cookies sure look scrumptious!”
The kids and I try not to get our tinsel in a tangle as we jingle and jangle our way through the bustle of December. Canadian Man goes daily off to work with his briefcase and lunchbox and escapes much of the stress, not the least of which is keeping the toddler from pulling down the tree and keeping the lid on hyper, excited kiddos.
There’s something about Christmas that enchants and delights and never gets old. I’m willing to pull out some hair in exchange for seeing the four-year-old with his rear up and head under the evergreen shaking and rattling the pretty, shiny packages.
I can handle harried hustle to hear the littles lisp program recitations, to see tennis shoes paired with lovely velvet dresses because we realized too late the shiny church shoes are too small, and to witness the boys spit-licked and polished to the nth degree for once in their life. It makes it all so worth it.
I’d forgotten all about the bucket of cookies in my freezer until Azalea calls. “I’m coming to pick up those cookies in half an hour on our way to the party,” she says.
Alrighty! No problem. We’ll pull them out when you come.
The vehicle squeals into the yard amidst snow swirls and puffs of exhaust. Azalea hurries in decked out in party finery, and I rush to the freezer.
“At least you’ve got nice weather tonight!” I say cheerily as I reach in to grab the ice cream bucket. I take hold of the handle and give it a hefty pull. The container sails past my shoulder like it was filled with feathers.
What??? Why is it so light? I bring the bucket down and peel off the lid to peek inside. Three lonely cookies lie in shame at the bottom of the pail amidst a few crumbs and a couple of red M & M’s. This can’t be right. I peer into the freezer for the cookies that are supposed to be there. There is nothing that resembles a canister of cookies. I can’t believe it! Where did the cookies go??
“BOYS!!” I yell furiously, “Get over here right now!!” The Three Musketeers slink over warily. “Did you eat all the Monster Cookies?” I ask.
“No, Mom! I didn’t even know there was Monster Cookies!” says Buzz earnestly. “Not me!” assures Zeke. “I didn’t,” says Drover. All three seem to be sincere; my lie detector doesn’t smell any deceit here. Are they such great liars? Oh, dear.
“Boys, tell me the truth,” I demand. They each vehemently deny any complicity in The Great Cookie Heist. What am I to make of this? SOMEONE ate the cookies! I need to find the culprit! I bring Dad in to lay on some pressure.
“Which of you ate those cookies?” Canadian Man questions, “’Fess up, boys!” Three heads shake vigorously. “Don’t lie now, boys! Tell me if you ate the cookies.” Three pairs of eyes meet their dad’s. “No, Dad, I didn’t even know there was Monster Cookies, “declares Drover.
“It’s Monster Cookies that are missing?” asks Canadian Man, and a strange look crosses his face. “Oh….gosh…” his voice trails off curiously.
I look at dear hubby, whose face has gone pinkish and whose eyes are oddly shifty. “Were those Azalea’s cookies?” he asks meekly.
Tumblers click in my brain and I point at the biggest boy of the bunch. “YOU?” I cry out, “Did you eat those cookies??”
“Well,” he stammers, “I found the bucket in the freezer, and I thought you made cookies for my lunch. I took a couple every day to work,” he confesses.
“YOU are the one? And you were blaming the boys??” I splutter indignantly as I frantically try to figure out how to bake three dozen cookies in…well…in five minutes. Poor Azalea, she must be so miffed.
Azalea, her hand on the doorknob ready to bolt out to her party, hung around to see if there was a chance that maybe they were switched to the fridge freezer or something. When she realizes there is no redeeming the cookies, she is amazingly understanding. “It’s okay, Mom, I’ll just grab something from the store on our way,” and, with an amused roll of eyes, she breezes out into the cold, leaving a stunned mom and boys staring incredulously at an embarrassed and flustered dad.
Suddenly, I burst into hysterical laughter. “Oh my gosh,” I wheeze, “it was YOU!!” The stress of the season streams out in hilarity like an overflowing sink. The boys laugh heartily in relief to be out from under the finger of blame. Holding my aching belly, I giggled, “Youuuu… demanded the boys confess!”
I lift the cookie bucket. “Well, there are cookies here for three boys,“ I say, handing them to eager hands. “But YOU, Cookie Thief,” I say glaring exasperatedly at Canadian Man, “there’s none left for you!”
On Christmas eve, I reach between the piney smelling green branches to pull out one more gift. I hand it to The Cookie Thief with a grin. “Merry Christmas dear,” I say. He doesn’t know it, but I have wrapped up a memory. It’s one worth preserving; one of snorting, gut-holding mirth every time we think of the Great Christmas Cookie Heist. And we remember it every year when we pull out the new tree ornament: a perfect, ready to bite into, homemade-looking ceramic Monster Cookie!
Funny. Azalea has never asked me to keep cookies for her since. I don’t think I blame her. I wouldn’t trust that cookie thief either.
