Day 44: The Dream Is Always The Same

My fingers are still stained red from the frosting I made last weekend.  I carry indelible guilt, a scarlet V for Vanity.

Anything pricey must be good, yes? Fancy gel food coloring did this to me, expensive stuff from the cake-decorating aisle at a specialty store.

I plan to make cut-out Valentine cookies that are terrifying in their perfect beauty. I want little masterpieces to present casually to friends: “Oh, that? It was nothing!” — even if it takes all afternoon.

Which it does. Rolled cookies are a tedious chore from hell. I start cursing before I even start.  But I get a lovely pile of them baked (we won’t mention the forgotten pan that sets off the fire alarm).

My treats are to have deep red frosting with ribbons of white swirled across the surface. I make fussy old-fashioned egg-white icing that will dry hard and shiny. The red batch won’t get dark enough, though. I keep adding dye. It’s an unholy mess.

I pack the syrupy glop into pastry bags and manage to get one whole cookie decorated. As a first effort, it isn’t too bad. I am determined to succeed.

Red frosting bleeds all over me and the counter. I lick a blob off my finger. Toxic dye chemicals have rendered it horribly bitter and weird. It is inedible.

(insert expletive)

So I mix up yet another bowl of frosting – plain white.  I slap it on the cookies and throw on sprinkles. They look festive.

They also look like kindergarten craft projects.

So I don’t give them away. Husband raises his eyebrows at this development.  He dares to suggest that I shouldn’t tie my self-worth to a cookie. He scolds me for my perfectionism. He does all this with A Look.

I give him A Look in return.