C = Cookie 22

C = Cookie

Well, I was just going to do a post about my Christmas Cookies and share a recipe for those and the frosting and for good measure throw in my coleslaw recipe.

But, because I am totally and completely obsessed and everything–And I do mean EVERYTHING–has become an A2Z post, my family has gotten used to my random shouts of, “Oh, that would be great for S” or “What in the name of hell am I going to do for G?”

So tonight when I shouted, “Oh shit, I have to do my blog post for my coleslaw and Christmas cookies,” my daughter said, “That is way too boring Mom, do ‘C is for Cookie and discuss what cookie is for our family.'”

Once this concept was put into my brain, there was no way I could go forward with my planned post for my recipes.  Consequently, we are going to discuss how our family calls a vagina a Cookie. Yep, you heard me.  I am sure you are hoping that my finger slipped off the keys and my head hit the keyboard, but nope.  I typed it correctly.  In my house and family, Cookie=Vagina.

I have not a clue when it started or who started it.  We have called it a cookie since I was a child.  My husband was mortified when he met my family and somewhere during the first couple months of dating reference was made to “cookie” in this inappropriate manner.

I tried diligently to train my daughter to use the professional/medical terminology, but when Grandma and Great Grandma and Aunts and Uncles and Cousins call it a Cookie, well it becomes the preferred term.

I remember my daughter proudly explaining to the pediatrician that “I don’t call it a vee-gina (her cute, appropriate wording), I call it a cookie!”  Yeah, try explaining that to the doctor without turning red.

There have been numerous occasions where we are in public and someone will say, “Don’t you love cookies with sprinkles?” or “Let’s eat those wonderful cookies dipped in chocolate!” or “Do you want to take some cookies home?” or “Would you like a cookie?” My husband and I will look at each other and stifle our laughter.   Even when the kids were little, they would laugh behind their hands, running out of the room.

And when your husband starts winking at you and singing with Cookie Monster “C is for Cookie, that’s good enough for me, C is for Cookie……Oh Cookie, Cookie, Cookie starts with C,”  it really doesn’t have the effect he is hoping for.  Just sayin’.

So now that my family tradition has probably ruined a perfectly sweet Sesame Street song for you, let me formally apologize and state for the record that misery does love company.


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