Turkey Cookies

On Sunday, my mother, grandmother, aunt &  cousin made the traditional Thanksgiving turkey cookies. 

Since I will be partying in Pittsburgh this Thanksgiving, I still wanted to feel like I was a part of my family's celebration. It would also ensure that I would get my turkey cookie. 

The flour clumps in the cracks in our hands and highlights the hand prints on our clothes. As we roll and stamp the dough, the sun spills across the table, catching the dusty flour and reflecting in the glasses of sweet white wine sitting beside the half empty plate of apples and cheese.

We laugh, we talk, we listen to music that Doug has cobbled together, we drink and eat, reminisce and decorate cookies.  The time passes and the light changes, without much notice.

After the sun has set, Aunt Sandy puts on the finishing touches - the names - just after I finish the last color of the plumage.  We search for cookies large enough to fit the longer names, and we threaten to put on embarrassing nicknames for the longest, but only one comes out altered.  Autumn's cookie proclaims, "Baby." (I guess it's better than "Fall," which was my suggestion.)

When we finish, we survey our cookies with satisfaction and perhaps a little indifference. They are not really the reason we came. We came for the talking and the laughing, and the family. The final product: A tray full of familiar names, a few more family stories passed on, a nice buzz, and turkey cookes.