Spooning (17 page)

Sledge Cookies

Yields 60

Preheat oven to 350° F. Cream the butter and sugars together. Add the eggs, baking soda, vanilla, and cinnamon. Mix well. Gradually add flour and oatmeal. Stir in chips and bits. Drop spoonfuls of dough onto an ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 8 to 10 minutes. Do not over bake. Cool for about 5 minutes and remove from cookie sheets. Cool on racks
.

Be prepared … these are not your usual chocolate chip cookies
!

D
ecember danced in like Bing Crosby in wingtipped tap shoes. The days were so cold, so crisp and clear that you could almost lick the breeze. Feeling festive, I had passed one of those random shops on Broadway and had grabbed a postcard from amid the odd ensemble of tourist T- shirts and memorabilia. The postcard depicted imposing skyscrapers against a picturesque blue backdrop mimicking my surroundings. I scrawled a note to my parents:

This morning, despite the frigid temperatures, I had decided to forgo the bus and walk down Broadway to Columbus Circle to catch the train at Fifty-ninth Street to head downtown to work. Early on, I had learned that four long crosstown NY blocks is a mile, and twenty short up- or downtown NY blocks is a mile. Most New Yorkers knew those stats for running purposes. I knew them just so I could count my occasional walks as legitimate exercise.

Before descending into the subway, I indulged in a Star- bucks latte—partly for the caffeine and partly for the warmth. As I took a precious sip of my expensive treat, I heard the cheerful whine of subway wheels roaring by underneath. I sped down the stairs, screaming, “Hold the train!” as if I was saving a baby from being crushed, and squeezed on with only about four “how dare you” looks from those I'd smooshed. The commuters, padded in their winter down, had morphed into one large swaying blob. I found a seat that actually had another
half spot empty next to it (half, due to the spread-eagle position of the man the next seat over), and opened up the tabloid-sized
New York Post
. Despite several months in the city, I still hadn't attained the skills necessary to fold a full-sized newspaper in the lengthwise way that made it possible to read without hitting other passengers with the black-inked pages. Other commuters seemed so uptown with their chic fold-and- flip style of reading. Taking another sip of my latte, I skipped ahead to the gossip columns on Page Six.

Three stops down, the doors gaped open to let a woman on. With her faux Burberry coat and golden Clairol boxed job, she squeezed toward me bumping everyone in her path with her three Macy's shopping bags. She approached the half seat, and courteously asked us to make room. I shifted my thighs to the side, and spread-eagled man reeled his knees in about two inches. She plopped down and immediately began fidgeting. She adjusted the right corner hem of her coat about fifty times in three minutes.

“Sorry, I just want to make sure that your muddy shoe does not touch my coat,” she explained. Now her explanation would have been sufficient except for the fact that my shoes weren't muddy. It was a cold day, a cold dry day. And my new Payless shoes (so like the Tod's driving loafers) had hardly a scuff on the sole. I just smiled slightly and went back to my inner contemplation. A minute later, she was still at it.

“Don't you kick me!”

“What?” What was this psycho talking about?

“I can tell what you are trying to do!”

Again, what?

“Don't you dare kick me! You are messing with the wrong woman!”

“Ma'am,”—courtesy helps, right?—“I'm just sitting here. I have not moved! I'm just sitting here minding my own business, I haven't touched you.”

“I can see your foot getting closer, don't kick me!”

“Hey,” throw in a little attitude, “I was here first, and you sat down!”

“You didn't pay for that goddamn seat! You paid for the ride. You're messing with the wrong person.” Good God, didn't I know it. “Don't kick me!
This
is New York!”

I knew where I was. Hell, I was no longer a New York virgin. I had been here almost five months, and therefore I was almost a resident according to tax law. Yet here was this woman giving me a geography lesson peppered with threats at 9:11 A.M. As the train slowed at the next stop, she stood, swinging her three shopping bags, and threw a Kennebunkport Red fingernail in my face.

“You are the most inconsiderate person. You are in New York now. Someday you are going to mess with the wrong person, and probably get hurt, get hurt bad!” I tried to ignore all the people staring as she walked off, and then buried my nose back in Page Six, and tried to concentrate on some celebrity's public misery. I felt almost nauseous. Where had I gone wrong in that exchange? It was supposed to be the season of joy. Good cheer. And instead I'd been verbally assaulted and humiliated in front of dozens of steely-eyed morning commuters. I felt my holiday mood rapidly disappearing.

I arrived at work and as soon as I'd settled at my desk, my dear mother called to reminisce about bygone Christmases. She had my work number and extension taped to the kitchen wall at home. I'd tried to explain to her that I couldn't gossip
at work and to save it for our mother-daughter convo's during the obligatory 9:00 P.M. phone call every night. Yes, every night! She always wanted to know that I was safe at home and not lying dead out on the street. She'd apparently missed the professionalism point in the memo I sent, and too often took my curtness while at work as a rebuff. So, never one to give up, she usually called once during the afternoon as well.

“Oh, hi Mo—”

“Hi dear, do you remember that footstool you made me in woodworking?”

“Yes, it was relegated to the summerhouse junkyard of unappreciated art projects,” I said with a tinge of sarcasm.

Without missing a beat, she continued, “Remember that batik wrap you made me? It turned my shoulders blue!”

Ha-ha. It was actually turquoise, thank you very much. “Yes Mom, and your point—”

“And remember the embroidered brick cover you gave me?” Her voice had a tinge of annoyance.

“Mom, that was for a doorstopper. You always complained that the doorframe in the guest bedroom is off-kilter and that Dad did not have the wherewithal to fix it! That doorstopper was so the door would not bang in the middle of the night!” Point Charlie. This was like a goddamn phone tennis match. What was in her craw today?

“Oh, well,” she said, “I never heard the door do that. It probably bothers you since your bedroom is right there. But then again, you're never really home.” How my thoughtful third-grade gift had been turned into a dig about my continuous absences was beyond me. Clearly, she was still upset that I'd missed Thanksgiving.

“Anyways, yes, Mom?” I prodded.

“It's anyway, not anyways. Anyway, I am so glad those days are over! Now that you are a working girl, no more homemade gifts!”

Okay, there went my idea of homemade soap sachets. Levette Chosser, the gift guru, had been on
Sunshine & Sensibility
the other day and shared the easiest recipe for scented soap. I figured I would whip up a batch for the holidays and put a little C-spin on the bars and use old cookie cutters to make funky little guest soaps. Oh well, I sighed, at least my grandparents would appreciate them.

I knew I definitely was bah-humbugging it when everyone swapped gifts later that afternoon at the annual
Sunshine & Sensibility
secret Santa party. I was given a gaily wrapped box with the words “Corporate Chic” emblazoned on the side. I held my lips in a polite bow of a smile as I lifted the lid. Inside was a mini lint roller, an aluminum box of peculiarly strong breath mints, a mirror that magnified by two hundred times, a mini can of static cling protection, and a pad of oil-absorbing powder leaves. What was this gift supposed to mean? Was my morning breath lingering all day long? Did I have a dandruff problem that was ruining my slimming black outfits? Did my skirt ride up and hug my ass in inappropriate ways? Was the oil sheen on my face reflecting off of others' computers making it impossible for them to concentrate? Did they think I was blind to these appearance ills and needed to have them brought to my attention two-hundred-fold?

“How wonderful!” I exclaimed with fake glee. “I can stick this … this Corporate Chic box in my desk drawer for those infrequent indiscretions!” I wasn't sure whether the nods were in agreement with me or with the appropriateness of the gift.

T
hings began looking up later that day when I left the office and my cell phone began to vibrate in my bag. I reached for it and saw Mr. J. P. Morgan's number flashing across my screen. Deep breath, deep breath, “Hello?”

“Gorgeous!” Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. “Where are you?”

“Walking home from a long day at work.” He'd called me gorgeous!

“Well run your cute ass over here. I'm waiting for you at Hampton's Heiress.” I had known that he would be frenzied at work during the holiday season—the stock market peaked and valleyed on so little as the publication of the Toys “R” Us catalog. Yet even after all of today's humiliations, it truly was turning out to be the season of giving. Jolly ole Mr. J. P. Morgan was making time for me.

“Be there in about ten minutes,” I said casually, then factored in the newly descending rain. “Make it twelve.” That gave me three minutes to grab a taxi to get home, five minutes to change, two minutes to cab it back across town to Hampton's Heiress, and a two-minute cushion for weather delays. Plausible.

Home. Changed. Cabbing. I had managed to hail a cab within the eight-minute time frame despite the freezing rain, but then the cab got stuck toward the east side of Central Park behind a car and carriage accident (the horse was all right).

“Mum, we might be here for hours,” the cabbie told me. I didn't have hours! “You might want to walk, love.” Feeling his good intentions, I took his advice. For five extra bucks, he gave me his old umbrella.