“No, no, not at all.” Jazzy finished mixing the ingredients and moved to spooning the batter onto the cookie sheet. “I promise.”
“Whew!” He pantomimed wiping massive sweat from his forehead.
Laughing, Jazzy put the cookies into the oven and set the timer. Ten minutes later, she took them from the oven and Charlie edged over to investigate.
“They look yummy. We got off to a rocky start, but we’ve rebounded. Well done, Walker.”
She beamed at him. “Thanks.”
Charlie took a spatula and scooped a cookie onto a plate. “I’m impressed. Crisp on the outside but soft in the middle. Perfect cookie in my book. Just gonna let it cool a minute...” He paused, waiting, and then picked up the warm cookie and popped the entire thing into his mouth.
He took one chew. His mouth dropped open, and he spewed the cookie back onto the plate. “Gak! Good Lord, woman! You trying to kill me?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Tastes like ocean. How much salt is in the batter?”
“What the recipe called for.”
“No, you didn’t. I’m out! You’re not baker material.” Charlie threw his hands in the air.
“Wait. You can’t abandon me!”
“I do like a spectacle, girlfriend. But this?” He shook his head. “This wild escapade is too much,even for Good Time Charlie. Sorry, Lambchop, teaching you to bake is beyond my skill set.”
“It can’t be that bad.” Jazzy picked up a cookie and took a nibble. Pure salt. She tossed it in the trash can. “How did that happen?”
“You tell me.”
She turned to the plain white canisters, sorted by size, opened the lid, and dipped her finger in, and touched her tongue to her finger. “Yuck. It’s salt.”
“No sugar, Sherlock. What happened?”
Jazzy smacked her palm against her forehead. “I was helping Justice make a salt map for geography class a couple of months ago and I told him to pour the box of salt into the canister,” she said. “He must have put the salt in the sugar canister.”
“Why aren’t the canisters labeled?” Charlie asked.
“They came without labels.”
“I should go get my label maker. If you’re planning on becoming a baker for real, it’s a must-have.”
“You’re right.”
“Question for you.” Charlie scooped up the cookie sheet and marched over to dump them into the garbage can. “Seeing as how your stepmom’s family originated the whole Christmas cookie town legend, and she wroteThe Magic Christmas Cookie, how is it you never learned to bake? I thought cookie baking was ubiquitous in your house.”
He was referring to the prevailing Twilight myth that if you baked kismet cookies and slept with them under your pillow on Christmas Eve, you’d dream of your one true love.
“They were. I think that’s the problem. I got cookied-out.”
Charlie gasped and planted a palm against his chest. “Blasphemy!”
Jazzy shrugged. “What can I say? I’m the cookie renegade in the family.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Charlie slid the empty cookie sheet into the sink. “Next you’ll be telling me you never slept with a kismet cookie under your pillow.”
Jazzy hung her head. “I didn’t.”
“For real! I can’t believe it!”