I Can't Bake. DEAR GOD, I CANNOT BAKE!

I kind of suck at baking. The only thing that I’m consistently able to produce is cobbler. I make a mean cobbler.

I tried to bake cookies with my kids last week. I really did. It’s the Holidays, after all. Otherwise they’ll end up on a therapist’s couch sobbing , “Mom never made Christmas cookies.” And I don’t need that shame-spiral right now.

First, I tried gingerbread men. I had a store-bought mix, so it should’ve been fool-proof.

Well, the gingerbread-mix people hadn’t counted on me! I made the dough. It was sticky. I thought, “This needs more flour.” So I continued adding flour till the dough was stable enough to withstand a rolling pin. I must have added a cup of extra flour.

I rolled the dough, and cut out the men. They baked up fine. I frosted them, and Preschooler assisted with adding the sprinkles. That is, she dumped an entire jar of sprinkles on one gingerbread man and announced, “I’m done!”

When the frosting set, I tasted a cookie. It tasted like shellacked cardboard. Ooops. Apparently the cure for sticky dough is to chill it for a while. Also, when making royal icing, adding an entire 2 1/2 pound bag of powdered sugar is probably overkill. WHO KNEW?

Undeterred, my next attempt was a double-chocolate chip cookie with marshmallows. When all was said and done, they spread all over the pan into a large, sticky half-burned mess. I tried to do a search for a picture of the "cookie" I created. I couldn't find any. I'M JUST THAT GOOD!

Finally, I tried a peanut butter cookie dipped in chocolate and powdered sugar. This time I remembered that my cookie-saving-grace was to replace butter with vegetable shortening, and using self-rising flour instead of all-purpose flour. For those familiar with baking, I know. Weird.

This time, I ended up with beautiful peanut butter cookies. Then I ruined them by dipping them in chocolate and powdered sugar.

I ate a couple, then gave up. The only thing I could taste was cavities. Husband didn’t even try them. I tossed the whole mess.

The next afternoon, after rummaging around in the kitchen, Husband asked, “Where are the cookies?”

“What cookies?” I asked. I didn’t make any cookies. I only made atrocities.

“The ones you made yesterday,” he answered.

“I tossed them. They weren’t any good.”

“I didn’t even try one!” His disappointment was palpable. Crap, there’s that shame-spiral again.

I hope Santa likes cobbler. It’s all I can offer.

Also, I hope he likes tequila - I could sure go for a margarita right about now.