Sugar covered snowflakes were the cookies, they were rich and had that brown plumpness that that most people think only doughnuts own, but instead of one hole each had an intricate maze of deep-fried criss-crosses. No two were alike, just like the real thing, and when you bit into one the powdered sugar and glaze would slip through and electrify your tongue. They also dissolved like real snowflakes but I always wished it would rain down cookies from the sky rather than what I was told was frozen water. The recipe was closely guarded and only brought out when we brought a pine tree into the house, and I waited eagerly for that taste of sugar on dough. Too young to cook I would wait by the mixing bowl as it growled and wait by the oven as it hummed and wait by the window as something not quite so taste fell silently by. I think I was by the window when there was a crash, not the clammer of pans but the brittle kind that means you need to watch your step.
“There’s glass in it now”
“Not enough to make more”
It was a real dilemma. Make glass-filled cookies, or no cookies at all. I, being young, brave, and by the window where glass looked perfectly safe, thought I’d take my chances. But I was short and in the minority. In the end we made them, but only to look at. So I had to eat real snow and watch the platter to try and remember the crisp taste of silent fireworks and lemon glaze. We never made them again because the cookbook got too wet to read. I’ve always wondered how many other children had the chance to learn what snowflakes really taste like.