A/N - Oh, I forgot to mention: someone had a chat with the Car Key Gnomes and they have finally returned my outline cards for the story I started several years ago (known colloquially as How Sandy Ends Up With a Second Store). Thank you, whoever you are. (Now I just need to read my writing, lol.)

It will be worked on slowly but surely, but I'm smart enough not to promise you a timeline.

Christmas season 2014

Broken Cookies Have No Calories—They All Fell Out When the Cookies Broke

"Mommy…?"

Amazing what you can tell by the tone of someone's voice. I just knew that a minor con job was in my near future. A loan? Probably not; her chore account was respectably high. Movie night? I couldn't think of anything out that was interesting to any of us. "Yes, dear?" I said with almost syrupy innocence.

"What are we doing next weekend?"

Oh, puh-leeze. I had a stack of table spreadsheets detailing the ingredients for all the cookies, candy, pies and cakes we were making for the season. (This was a trick I had learned from Ducky, who was this logical and methodical for holiday dinners even when the number of attendees was under ten.) She knew we were starting on the baking. "Cookies and cakes and pies. Nana and Auntie Barb and your cousins Allison and Sharon are going to be here, too. They both have cookie exchanges in a week or so, so we aren't freezing everything."

Lexi's face fell. "Oh."

I was surprised. "I thought you were looking forward to baking with all the girls."

"I am. I just thought it was next next weekend, not this next weekend. I was hoping… well… maybe… Lindsay could come…" She spoke in a rush. "She was supposed to be at her mom's this weekend, but they traded, and her dad forgot, and he's already out of town! And her mom can't change her plans, so Lindsay is going to be alone for the weekend—"

I froze and tried not to look as horrified as I felt. I felt like my face was dipped in Botox. Leave a six year old alone for the weekend?! Is she nuts?!

Forget that. I've met Mrs. Gallagher. Yep. She's nuts.

So I've got a choice. Let her ankle out for the weekend and call CPS on her ass. Tempting, very tempting. Or— "We've got plenty of room at the table while we're working, we'll be at the dining table. I think it would be a wonderful idea to have Lindsay spend the weekend. Why don't you give her a call—and if her mom has any questions, she can talk to me." As Lexi bolted toward the kitchen, my smile became a grimace with a narrow-eyed glare thrown in for good measure. I really, really hoped Mrs. Gallagher wanted to talk to me.

Mrs. Gallagher didn't need to talk to me, darn the luck. Lindsay came home with Lexi after school the following Friday, minus her overnight backpack. Apparently they had been in a rush that morning and it had been left behind. (The more accurate, read-between-the-lines version is that mom told Lindsay the bag was in the car. No, it was in the garage, not the car. Close. No banana. When they were halfway to school and it was discovered that it was missing, mom refused to go back and said she would drop it off "sometime" after work.) Both Lindsay and I called and texted and got no response. Repeatedly. By bedtime, I gave up and we found a nightgown Lexi had outgrown as well as a pair of jeans we could "cuff up" and a kitten covered t-shirt for the next day.

(I finally got a response text at eleven-freaking-oh-eight pm. Apparently she 'lost' her phone in the car but would drop the bag on her way out of town around 8 the next morning, "mmmkay, lol?" I let out a measured breath even though she wouldn't hear it, and shot back a terse, "Fine.")

Ducky and I could hear giggling and goofing around down the hall; I nodded my head in that direction. "Your turn."

Ducky sighed and shrugged on his robe, then padded down the hall. I heard a quick rat-tat-tat, then: "If you ladies intend to make cookies tomorrow, we start bright and early at seven, right after breakfast. It will behoove you to get a good night's sleep."

There was a silence, then a last loud burst of giggles and, "'night, Daddy!" and "Gunnight, Dr. Ducky!"

As he crawled back into bed, I swear I heard him mutter, "Some people should only raise guppies."

If that.

I was dressed and downstairs before I was conscious (a common occurrence in my universe). Suzy, bless her heart, was already at the breakfast table, sipping on coffee and perusing the morning paper. "Are you awake?"

"Yes? No? Maybe?"

"All of the above?" she laughed. She looked up in surprise at the sound of thumping feet overhead.

"Lindsay is here for the weekend. She and Lexi did all the setup of the dry ingredients in the dining room last night. Mom is picking up Barb and the girls and will be here somewhere between seven and half past, they're eating on the way. Have you eaten?" The last I delivered around a monster yawn.

"Yes. But I figured with all of the cookies you're planning on doing, you'd need a dose of protein, so I brought a breakfast casserole." She pointed toward the stove—as I belatedly realized the kitchen was warm.

"Girlfriend, I live in mortal terror that you'll quit," I said fervently, pulling the disposable lasagna pan from the oven. "Ooooh, your smushy burritos!"

The girls pelted into the kitchen, chirping good mornings to Suzy, Ducky slowly bringing up the rear. He joined me at the stove and gave a delighted crow. "Smushy burritos! Lovely!"

Lindsay smiled uncertainly. "What are smushy burritos?"

Before I could answer, Lexi piped up. "Do you like tortillas? Eggs? Bacon? Potatoes? Cheese? Tomatos?" Lindsay nodded on each ingredient. "Then you'll like these. And Suzy doesn't make them spicy. They're really, really good."

(Lindsay ate two.)

Mom and crew arrived just as I was rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. I barely got a "hello" from her before she caught sight of Suzy and zeroed in on the coffee maker. "Did you make the coffee?" Suzy nodded. "God bless you." She headed for the cabinet with the mugs and poured a large ration.

Suzy laughed. "Glad it's appreciated."

Everyone properly recaffeinated, we got into the swing of things. We had both stand mixers set up so that we could alternate and give each one a break in between batches. Lindsay was fascinated; her mother didn't bake (or cook), but her grandmother lived in town and owned a standard two beater mixer. This was a very different animal.

The girls—Lexi and Lindsay, that is—took turns running to and from the dining room, bringing in ingredients. Sharon and Allison were in charge of scooping and dishing onto the parchment lined sheets. The various adults rotated through the kitchen being in charge of a mixer. (Except for Suzy. She was in charge of coffee and Mother, that was plenty.)

About eleven o'clock, the doorbell rang. Ducky and I exchanged glances and shrugs; after he had headed toward the door, it dawned on me. Mrs. Gallagher! (Eight o'clock my asterisk.)

"Mommy, come and look!" Lindsay excitedly gave her mother a tour of the production, while Lexi jetted upstairs with the belated overnight pack.

Mrs. Gallagher looked stunned. "I didn't realize you…bake so much!"

I wasn't sure if she was admiring or horrified. "This is a little unusual," I laughed. "We're baking and freezing a lot of them, my nieces both have cookie exchanges next week, there's a bake sale at school the following week, the Scouts have their exchange—we pretty much emptied out the freezer in the garage for just cookies and balls of dough so we can bake every weekend and not have to do all of this every time," I said, waving toward the dining room.

"And it's like homework, only fun!" Lindsay burbled. "Dr. Mallard is teaching us about—" She wracked her brain. "Uh, acids…and bases…and emul—emul—"

"Emulsification," Ducky supplied.

"He says 'cooking is art, baking is science,'" Lindsay continued. "And we did a lot of math!"

Mrs. Gallagher was either actually interested (a first) or doing a good job of feigning interest (also a first). She read over an expanded recipe where the girls had had to convert a recipe intended for a jelly roll pan to a half sheet pan. "How did you do this?"

"Well—we had a lot of help," Lexi admitted, grinning at her father.

"But we did all the plain doubling," Lindsay said proudly.

Her mother looked over her shoulder at our old standby white chocolate and almond cookie recipe and gasped. "Oh, Lindsay! You've done this wrong! You've ruined Mrs. Mallard's cookies!"

Shock and awe. Ducky and I had checked all of the math, and the girls had been slow, scrupulous—and correct. We all drew back a bit, even those who hadn't been here last night.

"What's—what's wrong?" Lindsay said doubtfully.

Her mother pointed. "There!"

Lindsay and Lexi both looked at the line, then looked at each other. "Um—it's right, Mommy," Lindsay said cautiously.

"It can't be right. Four is more than two!"

I didn't have to look. A quarter cup of brown sugar, doubled—half a cup. 1/4 and then 1/2.

"Right—but it's like a dollar has four quarters? One-slash-four is a quarter. One-slash-two is half. Like fifty cents." Lindsay showed her a graduated measuring cup. "See the 1/4? That's the same as this." She pointed to a nesting cup. "But you use this for liquid and that for powders."

Mrs. Gallagher covered her eyes with a limp hand, the universal 'I'm getting a headache' gesture.

"It was really confusing for me at first," Lindsay said consolingly. "Lexi has been practicing for ages so she taught me last night."

Mrs. Gallagher offered us a game smile. "I don't… bake much."

"It's not everyone's 'thing.'" I said easily. "Don't worry, Lin will be bringing home plenty of her wares."

"Well!" Mrs. Gallagher breezed a kiss on Lindsay's cheek. "Have a wonderful weekend, chickie, I'll pick you up…after dinner tomorrow?"

"That will be fine," Ducky said with a smile, leading her out of the room.

We all worked in silence for a minute, unsure of what to say. Ducky saved us.

"That was very graciously done," he said to Lindsay when he returned. "Some people have a hard time grasping fractions—especially if they don't use them frequently. Baking is an excellent way of learning fractions."

"It sure is," she agreed.

"But you made your mother feel better about her mistake by saying you had had a hard time with the fractions, too. I'm sure she was feeling embarrassed, and that helped tremendously."

"I guess…" Lindsay looked like she was struggling with how to phrase things. "Maybe…it's been so long since school, she's forgotten her fractions."

"Mmmmh, could be," I agreed (even though the back of my mind was wondering how you forget fractions—the basics, at least). "You'll just have to keep baking, so you don't forget!" I reached over and flicked my finger over the tip of her nose, brushing off a smudge of flour, making her giggle

By the end of the weekend, we had baked four dozen each of twelve kinds of cookies, frozen balls of dough for them and another dozen kinds, baked and froze eight pies and layers for six cakes (including the famous Hippy Gypsy carrot cake that Ducky had reverse engineered). We were amazingly efficient—five adults rotating kitchen duty, with two kitchen midgets being helpers and decorators. Seriously—how the hell does Hazel Dahl do all that baking all on her own?!

And Mrs. Gallagher called during the middle of dinner on Sunday. She had been delayed, could Lindsay spend the night and go to school with Lexi in the morning? Ducky rolled his eyes at me in frustration over Mother of the Year, but put a smile on his face ("it shows through the phone") and said absolutely, we'd be happy to have her through the morning.

We weren't surprised by the call. I doubt anyone who has met her would be.

Honest to gosh, I actually had to drive over to explain 1/4 vs 1/2 cups to a friend. "I ruined my blueberry muffins! I put in 1/4 cup of sugar instead of 1/2!" She just did *not* get it until I dug out all of her measuring cups. 30 years later, I'm still not sure she got it...