Christmas Cookies and the Pig

Let me tell you a story about Christmas Cookies, a laso ahpso, three cats and a pig. Not one of the kids -- a real pig.

We had a scheme, Jo and I. She insists it was my idea to this day. I say it was hers. We would run a classified ad and then we would bake and sell Christmas cookies. How hard could it be?

We met at her house, clearing the premises of husband, kids, dog and cats. Miss Pig remained. A Vietnamese potbelly pig of considerable girth, Miss Pig sat and coolly waited for a mishandled morsel to fall her way. Alas, none did, and she snorted in obvious disgust as she went hunting for a snack. Miss Pig had a penchant for fresh veggies, and not in her own dish, mind you. She had learned to help herself from the Frigidaire crisper, then close the door behind her. Pausing, she would settle her heavy head on my feet and munch her way through her carrot, then contentedly continue her foraging with my shoelaces. One does not discipline a hundred pound pig.

The cats were amazing creatures. One of them, a rescue, was so frightened of her own shadow she would barely leave her carrier, save to sit on the windowsill and watch the squirrels in the pines. Another, Stash ( a regal Siamese who was plainly of royal heritage) issued orders to his minions in a demanding "meow". Annie was fondly known as "liquid cat".  Imagine a black beanbag. Drape her across your shoulders or hang her over a ladder-back chair and Annie would go with the flow.

But what brought us together was the cookies. Hundreds of dozens of cutouts, hermits and tea cakes. You want it, we made it. Never burned not one. Trays and trays of cookies with icing and sprinkles. Obscene anatonomically correct gingerbread boys when we had too many martinis, lacy filigrees when we felt ambitious. We gained a few pounds and never made a nickel, but we bonded like gorilla glue.

Next year, we said, we would start earlier and freeze some. Next year never came. Life got in the way.

The husband has passed on, the kids grew up and are still friends with my boys. The cats and Maxie the laso are well-remembered.  Miss Pig grew to a hefty 300 or so pounds and spent her many remaining years on a farm near Sherman, NY.

Here's to you, my friend, and to all the cookies that were, are and might have been.

And to Miss Pig--you have no idea how close you came to becoming a pork chop.