We were all cookie swap virgins, well, to the best of my knowledge anyway. In an attempt to be organized and festive, we picked a kitchen and set a date to come together, visit, and bake cookies. After multiple hours, lessons in such things as: how to hold the baby, how to cream sugar and butter together, and how to totally gross out an 11-year-old boy with a kitchen full of women and, ahem, women talk; we each had a pile of cookies, dirty clothes, and wine-stained teeth.
Now these people here – a motley collection of childhood friends. Yes, we know how lucky we are. We really, really do. Nobody could blackmail me like any of these women could.
If you count success by the number of cookies baked and sheer amount of shameful gossip swapped, the day was wildly successful. Merry Christmas, my girls.