So Grandma Carr -- God rest her soul -- used to make these Christmas cookies that were so good they had to have been laced with some magic secret ingredient known only to her.
I haven’t had a frosted shortbread cookie (with sprinkles) before or since that could touch her recipe. I believe it was my aunt who pointed out that the formula was actually pretty simple so there was no accounting for why exactly we grandsons (six boys including my five cousins) lost our collective minds over these cookies.
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One year I acquired my own private stash in a shoebox and, we won’t name the family member, but when it was discovered I was holding out, I was physically chased through the house by said family member shouting, “Give me those cookies!” Once cornered, I did the only thing a sullen 15-year-old would do in that situation: I ditched my supply with a defiant toss to the ground. I can still picture that Thom McCann shoebox bursting open, cookies rolling asunder in all directions.
“You want the cookies?” I shouted. “There. Have the cookies!”
Of course, 35 years later, if I had a time machine I would go back and eat those cookies right off the ground.
Good times. Good times.
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