I confess, I had to Google it – I’ve never heard of a cookie exchange before, and even though it seems *so* simple, I was wary of being caught out by a non-X-Pondable* Americanism** (yes, Noah Webster, you’ll be proud to know I hold you fully accountable for the ridiculousness – you’re welcome). Anyway. Turns out it’s totally simple. It’s ‘Murican for a Cookie Swap***.Except it’s not.
Because my ‘cookie’ was a nutty little treat with blue frosting and crazy-bright sprinkles.
Fine, and great, but then Joy brought a basket full of delectable, chewy-delicious milk-and-dark chocolate cookies with a hint of chilli, and gold leaf on top. Which deserved a better setting than the paper party-plate and plastic cup of milk I could offer here. So her ‘cookies’ are over at Sisterwives, and OHMIGOSH, soooooOOOOoooooo good!
Come on over to the feast. The milk’s in the fridge. In a cut-glass decanter.
*X-Pond, as in ‘a cross, the Pond = across the pond = from they to I, or I to they, but betwixt Stateside and Empire, whichever way it happens.
**Like ‘pants’, which always, EVERY TIME makes me giggle with slightly naughty delight, and read the sentence wrong on purpose, because it’s FAR, FAR funnier. Because here, ‘pants’ are UNDERPANTS. Every. Time. Except when they’re knickers (we don’t have ‘panties’)
***It’s not – it’s still a cookie exchange. But once I realised that a cookie exchange was a cookie swap (as opposed to something more akin to a telephone exchange, where you all plug your cookies into one another and….nevermind – I can’t finish that!) I went and wrote ‘Cookie Swap’ on the pretty picture of my lebkuchen, and only when I came back here did I realise that I got the wording wrong. And I totally can’t be arsed to do all that lettering again. So I’m taking the offchance you won’t bother reading the footnotes anyway.