Shortbread Cookies

It always felt like Christmas
when we were in the kitchen.
Not because of the lights strung across the window,
or the carols playing softly from the radio,
but because of her.
Because of the dough.
Because of the way she’d lift me onto a chair
so I could reach the counter,
so I could press
my pudgy little hand
into the world of butter and sugar and flour.

She made shortbreads for him, once.
Because he loved them.
And then—
as if sweetness couldn’t help but spill from her—
she made them for everyone.
Tins wrapped with foil and ribbon,
sent to aunts and cousins,
neighbours and friends,
each cookie stamped with a silent kind of love.

It wasn’t just a recipe.
It was devotion in dough.
Care cut into shapes.
Love, baked golden and given freely.

I remember sneaking pieces
of uncooked batter
when I thought she wasn’t looking—
but of course, she always was.
She’d give me that knowing smile,
half amused, half pretending to scold,
and I’d grin with a mouthful of joy
and sweetness.

That was how she loved—
through small, sacred rituals,
through guiding hands,
through letting me try
and fail
and try again.
Through soft encouragement
and the quiet music of her presence.

Now, I still make shortbreads every Christmas—
not her recipe;
I lost it,
somewhere between Vancouver and Australia,
tucked into a notebook that never made it across the ocean.

But I still sneak the dough.
And when I do,
I think of her.

And the kitchen fills again
with the scent of childhood,
with her laughter,
with the feeling of being entirely safe,
entirely wanted,
entirely loved.

These are the memories I pass down
to my nieces and nephews—
floured hands and warm hearts,
recipes and rituals,
love folded into every bite.

And one day, when they are older,
I hope they’ll taste what I did:
that love can be quiet,
can be small,
can be the way someone helps you press
a cookie cutter
into a waiting dough
and tells you
you are important,
you are seen,
you are adored.