Third Sunday of Advent: CHRISTMAS WITH THE CAPED CRUSADERS

The year was 1996. My sons, ages two and four, were running

around the kitchen table, wearing old 1970s “Rhoda-style” scarves,

like capes. Superman and Batman were in the building!

That night, I was frantically trying to create the perfect Christmas

and had painstakingly rolled out cut-out cookies, just like Mom did

when I was growing up. Several cookies were out of the oven, cooling

on newspaper. Who needed to spend money on cooling racks when

you learned baking tips from a Depression-era mother?

I was in a hurry because I had work to do at home, for my job the

next day. The white rotary timer dinged and I turned quickly towards

the oven, hot pad in hand. As I grabbed the tray, the boys zoomed

into my space. To avoid a collision, I swung the hot tray over their

heads. Perfectly browned, luscious sugar cookies flew in all directions

before hitting the floor and crumbling into a thousand pieces.

“I am doing this for you!” I screamed insanely. The boys looked at

me like I’d lost my mind. Which I had.

I decided then and there that sometimes store-bought cookies are

good enough. That Christmas would be good enough. That I was

good enough. In the blink of an eye, I would have all the time in the

world to bake cookies, but that time was not now.

I thought of my mom, who had rolled back baking a dozen

different cookies by the time I turned ten. My baby sister was sick with

cancer. After that, Mom still baked cookies, but just a few of her

favorites: gingerbread and sugar cut-outs, and almond crescents.

The last time I saw my mom, Dolly Pasco, was late January 2020

just before Covid lock-down and her slide into advanced dementia,

then hospice. Since neither one of us had baked traditional Christmas

cookies that December, I brought a Valentine’s heart-shaped cookie

cutter and homemade dough to her home in Glenview. I rolled it out

on her old cutting board, the one I have now. Mom added red candy

sprinkles. Already I could see that she wasn’t quite sure how to do it.

I drove home the next day, anxious for what lay ahead for my

mom, my hero. There had been a Door County ice storm. When I

pulled into my driveway, three forty-foot trees had fallen in my yard.

I’m not sure who needs to hear this today but let me say it loud

and clear: Every Christmas is different. Take time for what’s truly

important. And remember, it really is okay to buy store bought

Christmas cookies … especially when caped crusaders are in the