There we'd be for our Christmas baking in our tiny aprons - Sarah, Tommy and me. Our faces would be lit up as if we were such happy angels, yet the real one was our patient mother of course, absorbing our chaotic mess as if we were the Vivaldi's of the culinary world.
When we did our Christmas baking, the kitchen took on more of a winter wonderland appearance than the great outdoors.
Our idea of baking was rolling and shaping pre-made cookie dough to our favourite Christmas music, then icing them afterwards in all kinds of bright colours. We'd never get our Michelin star in baking, but we had three of them in enjoying our time together.
As kids we were in the middle of that Christmas baking, and we felt so accomplished. As we grew we realised that our small part in it was only made possible by the rest of the family doing the shopping, the cleaning, the planning and such. And in that realisation the memories grew all the sweeter, as if time had caramelised them.
I loved the Christmas baking more than the eating, because those times with my Grandmother were the sweetest of all.
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