The whitest Christmas of my life was the winter of ’68-69. That was the winter I learned to bake. I was nine years old. The house was warm and fragrant and Gram and I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. It was my job to roll the Snickerdoodle balls in cinnamon and sugar. I got to make the crisscross pattern on the peanut butter cookies with a sugar coated spoon. I rolled the dough and cut the cinnamon rolls into perfect rounds with a piece of white cotton thread. I very much enjoyed making those treats — I would have enjoyed eating them, too — except Gram kept packaging them up and giving them away.
That particular winter lives in my memory for many reasons. And even though I was often wet and cold from playing outside, for some reason my memories of that time are as warm as hot chocolate and melty marshmellows. See for yourself: