I didn’t want to make cookies.
Not really. Not this kind. Not the kind that comes with memory in the sugar.
But I found the old tin.
The one with the faded snowmen and the corner dented like someone kicked it.
I think I did.
There was flour. There was silence.
So I started.
Her Highness calls them sugar cookies.
I call them grief in festive shapes.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version behaves.
Softened butter, creamed sugar, flour sifted like it matters.
You chill the dough. Roll it cold. Cut shapes with purpose.
She tells you to freeze them again before baking—so they hold.
Even cookies, apparently, need discipline.
They’re clean. Crisp edges. Just sweet enough.
Decorated like they have guests to impress.
She tells you to use royal icing. I didn’t listen.
What I Did Differently
Used regular sugar. Not caster. Couldn’t tell the difference.
Salted butter, too—because that’s what was soft.
My vanilla’s from a Christmas that shouldn’t have happened. Still smells like it.
I rolled the dough thick.
Didn’t bother with stars. Cut circles. One heart.
One that cracked down the center in the oven.
Still ate it.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The mixer was too loud.
I turned it down and heard the radiator click on. That sound always makes me sad.
The dough came together slow, like a reluctant memory.
I wrapped it in cling film that stuck to itself more than the dough. Mae used to hate that.
I chilled it too long, forgot it was there.
Rolled it on the counter next to a tea towel with a burn mark shaped like Maine.
The first batch puffed. Second batch crisped.
Iced them with a spoon. No piping bags. No expectations.
They weren’t beautiful. But they looked like trying.
A Few Things I Learned
Cookies can taste like the room they were made in.
Powdered sugar sticks to skin in a way that feels like being touched.
Some shapes don’t hold.
Some shouldn’t.
What I Did With the Extras
Put six in a tin. Took one out. Ate it in bed.
Mae got a few. Texted “they taste like yours.”
Didn’t say more. Didn’t need to.
Would I Make Them Again?
Yes.
But not for the holiday.
For the memory of one.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The tin’s on the shelf now.
Empty again.
But still making noise when I walk by.
If you want something saltier, I made Martha’s cheddar crackers once during a blackout. whole different kind of comfort. still good.
FAQs
Yes. Otherwise it sticks, spreads, and sulks. Like me, on bad days.
You can. They lose a little snap, but keep the shape. I’ve eaten worse straight from the freezer.
Not cloying. Just enough. But if you skip icing, they lean soft instead of sugary.
Royal icing, technically. But powdered sugar and water with a drop of lemon feels more human.
You can. But be ready for chaos. And sprinkles in your socks for a week.
Martha Stewart’s Christmas Cookies (Nell’s Version)
Description
Soft, simple, and shaped like something you used to love. These cookies don’t need to be perfect. Just made.
Ingredients
For the cookies:
For decorating:
Instructions
- Preheat the oven. Set it to 325°F (165°C). Not a degree higher. These cookies don’t like heat.
- Mix the dry stuff. Flour, baking powder, salt—whisk it like you’re stirring a thought.
- Cream the butter and sugar. Pale and fluffy. Or just blended and soft. It works either way.
- Add the eggs and vanilla. Keep going even if the smell hits something old inside you.
- Combine wet and dry. Slowly. Like forgiveness. Scrape the bowl sides. They hold everything.
- Divide and chill. Wrap two discs in cling film and refrigerate for at least an hour. More if needed.
- Roll the dough. Light flour on the counter. Aim for just under ¼ inch thick.
- Cut your shapes. Stars. Trees. One sad heart. Anything you’ve got a cutter for.
- Chill again. Put the tray in the freezer for 10–15 minutes. Keeps the shapes from slumping.
- Bake. 12 to 15 minutes, until golden at the edges. Don’t wait for perfection.
- Cool completely. Otherwise the icing slides off like regret.
- Decorate. Spoon it, smear it, or don’t bother. They’re good either way.