The reject cookies – that’s what my husband gets: The lopsided star; the hunchbacked gingerbread man; the rock-hard brownie; the runny, chocolate chip blob; the overly-crisp, deeply “tanned” Santa; the peace dove, packing an A-bomb cinnamon candy.
My husband never complains.
The kids don’t complain either. They’ve learned to be grateful for small favors. If Mom’s making cookies, the good ones are going to someone else.
But the kids have cultivated ways to obtain rejects. They stand, expectantly, with big doe-eyes. Other times, they speak up: “That camel’s head fell off. Can I eat it?”
The family can always count on reject cookies because I rarely have time to be precise. After making just enough good ones for the potluck, prayer group or helpful neighbor, I’ll do a slapdash version with leftover dough, producing plenty of rejects.
Sometimes, the kids will try to convince me that a perfectly good cookie is a reject. They will point out small flaws that should disqualify the cookie from a neighbor plate. After all, there is no such thing as a perfect cookie.
At Christmas, I like to think of people as gingerbread kid dough cookies. No such thing as a perfect one. We grouse at each other, cheat each other, take from each other. Sometimes, as we’re baked, we become too brittle and snap at the slightest pressure. Sometimes we’re too soft and fall apart at a hint of criticism.
We love to point out flaws in other cookies while ignoring our own.
If our shortcomings were known, we’d be rejects, pure and simple. But the cook keeps us. We puff up too much in the oven, believing our own opinions are weightier and more important than the next cookie’s. We collapse and ooze all over the cookie sheet, then defend our oozing as just another perfectly acceptable lifestyle choice.
Even so, we’re not thrown out. The spatula is outstretched still.
The cook rolls us out, and it’s painful under that rolling pin. Then He cuts us into shapes. More pain. We’re baked, and it’s excruciating. We complain and object. How could we be treated in such a manner? What’s wrong with staying dough? Just leave us alone, will You?
After we’re baked, parts of us are chipped away and carved off and trimmed up. Ouch, ouch, ouch! Only then are we iced and decorated.
You don’t frost cookie dough.
You don’t frost half-baked cookies.
The cookies – rejects all – bellow about unfair treatment.
Once, long ago, after the dough boys grumbled and crumbled, the Cook decided to show them what the baking process was all about by becoming a cookie Himself. He allowed Himself to be rolled out, cut, reshaped, cut again, baked and frosted. Perfect cookie. Absolutely dazzling cookie. But treated as a reject.
This cookie -- said the experts of His day -- is only good for the garbage. Or for the open mouths of reject-beggars.
But as they were about to throw Him out, He rose up from the pan, hopped from the oven and started running. Then, some reject cookies began to follow. They’ve been following ever since, and that’s why we still have Christmas 2,000 years later.
Here’s Christmas in a nutshell: We should be rejected but aren’t. He shouldn’t be rejected, but is.
Despised and rejected of men. Came to His own, but His own would not receive Him. To those who did receive Him He gave power to become the Cook’s own gingerbread kids. Something like that anyway.
Peace on earth and mercy mild, cook and rejects reconciled.
My husband never complains.
The kids don’t complain either. They’ve learned to be grateful for small favors. If Mom’s making cookies, the good ones are going to someone else.
But the kids have cultivated ways to obtain rejects. They stand, expectantly, with big doe-eyes. Other times, they speak up: “That camel’s head fell off. Can I eat it?”
The family can always count on reject cookies because I rarely have time to be precise. After making just enough good ones for the potluck, prayer group or helpful neighbor, I’ll do a slapdash version with leftover dough, producing plenty of rejects.
Sometimes, the kids will try to convince me that a perfectly good cookie is a reject. They will point out small flaws that should disqualify the cookie from a neighbor plate. After all, there is no such thing as a perfect cookie.
At Christmas, I like to think of people as gingerbread kid dough cookies. No such thing as a perfect one. We grouse at each other, cheat each other, take from each other. Sometimes, as we’re baked, we become too brittle and snap at the slightest pressure. Sometimes we’re too soft and fall apart at a hint of criticism.
We love to point out flaws in other cookies while ignoring our own.
If our shortcomings were known, we’d be rejects, pure and simple. But the cook keeps us. We puff up too much in the oven, believing our own opinions are weightier and more important than the next cookie’s. We collapse and ooze all over the cookie sheet, then defend our oozing as just another perfectly acceptable lifestyle choice.
Even so, we’re not thrown out. The spatula is outstretched still.
The cook rolls us out, and it’s painful under that rolling pin. Then He cuts us into shapes. More pain. We’re baked, and it’s excruciating. We complain and object. How could we be treated in such a manner? What’s wrong with staying dough? Just leave us alone, will You?
After we’re baked, parts of us are chipped away and carved off and trimmed up. Ouch, ouch, ouch! Only then are we iced and decorated.
You don’t frost cookie dough.
You don’t frost half-baked cookies.
The cookies – rejects all – bellow about unfair treatment.
Once, long ago, after the dough boys grumbled and crumbled, the Cook decided to show them what the baking process was all about by becoming a cookie Himself. He allowed Himself to be rolled out, cut, reshaped, cut again, baked and frosted. Perfect cookie. Absolutely dazzling cookie. But treated as a reject.
This cookie -- said the experts of His day -- is only good for the garbage. Or for the open mouths of reject-beggars.
But as they were about to throw Him out, He rose up from the pan, hopped from the oven and started running. Then, some reject cookies began to follow. They’ve been following ever since, and that’s why we still have Christmas 2,000 years later.
Here’s Christmas in a nutshell: We should be rejected but aren’t. He shouldn’t be rejected, but is.
Despised and rejected of men. Came to His own, but His own would not receive Him. To those who did receive Him He gave power to become the Cook’s own gingerbread kids. Something like that anyway.
Peace on earth and mercy mild, cook and rejects reconciled.
Donna Marmorstein December 2007 All rights reserved
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