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Hi Reader, Every December, I tell myself this will be the year I glide through the season like Martha-freaking-Stewart on a sleigh. I’ll bake ahead. I’ll gift-wrap like an adult. I’ll remember where I hid the presents. And yet every December, I end up standing in front of the oven at 3 AM, flour in my hair, muttering, “I hate the holidays!” And always feeling guilty. So, so guilty. (You can read all about my pathological guilt in this essay.)
Still, there’s something about the glow of that oven light—the way cookies puff and brown, the way holiday roasts hiss and sputter—that makes me feel grounded when everything else (shopping lists, shipping deadlines, my sanity, my never-ending guilt) feels like it’s spinning off its axis. It’s my one-man rebellion against the season’s chaos. My December kitchen may not look like the sweatshops my Leite aunts ran. Back then, trays upon trays of golden sonhos, sugar fritters, and coconut cups cooled on every available surface while uncles and cousins were shackled to chairs, eyes bloodshot, filling Royal Dansk shortbread tins with treats. (Fun fact: My aunts would consume massive amounts of those cookies all year just to have the tins for the holidays.) But that doesn't mean I'm not just as crazy. I'm thankful to have loved ones to gift all these holiday goodies to—mostly so THEY can feel guilty for not doing the same. (Did I just say that?!) Keeping the Oven Hot and Your Guilt at Bay
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WHAT'S INSIDE...
New York Times' Chocolate Chip Cookies
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