Cookies

She let her hair down, changed into pajamas, poured a whisky, and put her feet up. "Don't you ever get sick of cookies?" one of the littles had asked her earlier. "NEVER," she'd replied (and meant it); they'd laughed together. "Sugar and jam, cocoa and mint," she whispered sleepily, "icing and sprinkles, a lot or a hint; butterscotch buttons and chocolate in chips; closing the day with oatmeal cannabis." Mrs. Claus was a master of her craft and, therefore, knew how to survive it.