They had baked and laughed and drunk wine and eaten cookies and relaxed more that evening than Peter had done in a long time. The kitchen was comfortably sized, but with seven cooks, there had been a constant friendly jostling for prime counter space.
Sheets and sheets of cookies had gone through the oven, overspilling the kitchen counters and even the big Dining Room table. More coffee tables had been recruited from the Central Hall, dragged in and covered with paper boxes. They’d lined each box, the size to hold a ream of paper, with red tissue paper, then filled them with a wide variety of cookies, and tied them closed with red and green ribbons.
Some monster chocolate chip that Daniel called a Paul Bunyan Molasses cookie. Narrow slices of Em’s decadent Pan Forte and her chocolate-dip
