Sarah Kieffer - Baking for the Holidays: 50+ Treats for a Festive Season

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my Mom, Patricia Hesse, who never liked baking but still always baked with us, and who didnt have fond memories of Christmases past but made sure her kids had a bright Christmas present and future. I love you.

And to Maddie and Ellie, heres to many holiday seasons baking with your Auntie. xx

Copyright 2021 by Sarah Kieffer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kieffer, Sarah, author.
Title: Baking for the holidays : 50+ treats for a festive season / Sarah Kieffer.
Description: San Francisco : Chronicle Books, [2021]. | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020058057 | ISBN 9781452180755 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781452183466 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Holiday cooking. | Christmas cooking.
Classification: LCC TX772 .K535 2021 | DDC 641.5/68--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058057

Design by Lizzie Vaughan.
Typesetting by AJ Hansen.
Typeset in Intervogue and Quincy.

Photograph on : Shutterstock, Anton Buymov.

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My family had an old, rugged, fake Christmas tree that didnt require water, even though my mom always pined for a real, living tree to place in our front window. To my ten-year-old self, however, there was nothing like the thrill of my dad pulling out the giant, torn box it was kept in from the laundry room. He would mutter under his breath as he assembled it in our tiny family room; it was miserable work and that darned hunk of metal and plastic wasnt well made, but my siblings and I were oblivious to his mumbling, dancing around the half-assembled tree, singing songs full of holly and cheer. Joy to the world! My younger sister and I would grab the tree decorations, fighting over who got to hang the prettiest ornaments. My little brother would tackle our legs, knocking baubles and angels out of our hands while singing out of key. The smell of sugar cookies, ornately decorated by all of us just moments before, filled the room. My mom would tend a simmering pot of hot chocolate, complete with tiny marshmallows. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and the countdown to Christmas had officially begun.

Although my mom has never enjoyed baking and cooking as a pastime (she often refers to her kitchen as the worst room in the house) she actively made baking a part of our holiday season. Cookies in all the classic shapes and sizes were a tradition: snowmen, angels, trees, and stars were cloaked in ungodly amounts of red and green sprinkles. Peanut butter chocolate kiss cookies, Rice Krispies wreaths complete with Red Hots, seven-layer bars, and Russian tea cakes were also on the menu. Mini quick breads and apple pies occasionally showed up on the countertops. There were even a few years my mom dabbled in candy making and spritz cookies; we were fascinated by the special presses and molds she used to make these treats. If my dad wasnt working, he was in charge of music, and Amy Grants A Christmas Album or Evies Christmas Memories could be heard playing in the background while we baked together, along with our cassette tape of Christmas with the Chipmunks, to my moms dismay. My sister and I spent much time fighting over cookie cutters and sprinkles, and my little brother would help the edible decorations find their way to the kitchen floor. When our work was complete, we were immediately sent off to the neighbors to deliver our creations. There would be a brief scuffle outside over who got to hold the most tempting bundle of treats, and one of us would inevitably fall down on the snowy sidewalk leading from the house. Coated in snow, we would pass our goodie plates out to eager, smiling faces who would hastily hand us their own homemade treats in return. Wed usually return home with more cookies than we started with, and after eating our fill, the leftover treats would be moved to the basement freezer, where my sister and I would take turns sneaking downstairs and nibbling on them when no one was watching. He sees you when youre sleeping! He knows when youre awake! my parents would remind us when we emerged from the basement with chocolate-coated fingers and faces. We were bordering on the precipice of belief and myth, but no matter the sermon, cookies always won the discourse in our hearts.

Christmas Eve would finally arrive, and wed pile in the car with trays of cookies on our lap, headed to Grandmas house in the city. Her long, antique dining room table would be carefully covered in her mothers lace, already stacked high with food when we arrived. In one corner, tiny meatballs were bubbling in a slow cooker full of thick sauce, surrounded by bowls full of potato chips in every color. Another corner of the table would host my grandmas stash of roasted salty mixed nuts, along with fragile glass trays piled with black olives and carrot sticks. Without fail, my sister and I would find cozy spots by the cheese tray to fill our small faces full; wed alternate between devouring appetizers and homemade cookies while the adults had their backs turned.