The doorbell rang this afternoon.

Scott and his two daughters told me their mom had baked these cookies for us. Merry Christmas!

There were so many and so different. Each was a work of art. If his wife isn’t a professional baker, she certainly could be. Richard and I later cut a few in half so we both could explore among the variations.

My astonishment and stunned delight made their day while they were totally making mine. I had been sick and they had decided to do something about it to help me feel better.

Hours later, I suddenly wondered if their old KitchenAid still worked?

Not that the one has anything to do with the other, but–I’d long forgotten that about twenty years ago, I bought a new beater for my mixer at an outlet store, only to find it didn’t fit my machine. A rookie mistake, but not worth the two-hour round trip to return it. Maybe the next time I go to Gilroy?

I never did. It sat in its little white box in my house taking up space till not long after they moved in half a dozen years later.

Monica, barely knowing anyone yet, offered a baking demo at church. She was good!

And my beater that fit her Kitchenaid perfectly found where it had been waiting to go. A good baker could always use extras for making multiple batches in a row.