Bubba Dahl's cookies

When Braeden was a toddler, he called my mom, Bubba Dahl.

He called my dad Bubba Dahl.

You really had to pay attention to context clues to see which Bubba Dahl he was talking about.

(For the record, Mark called both of his grandpas 'Bob' at that age.)

(For the record, Emma could pronounce Grandma and Grandpa perfectly.)

Anyway, Braeden.  And Bubba Dahl.  (The grandma Bubba Dahl.)  She made her pressed cookies for Christmas like always and Braeden fell head over heels in love with Bubba Dahl's cookies.

When Emma was born my mom came to Connecticut to rescue us from the shock of adding a new baby to a family and she brought, in a little container, "Bubba Dahl's cookies."  Though it was February, she brought tiny red poinsettas and tiny green Christmas trees just for Braeden.  I put them in the freezer and gave him one every day until they ran out.

He is still sporting his pajamas.  I guess I gave him a cookie for breakfast.  What would you have done?  I mean, look how cute he was.  Also, his mouth looks a little orange-ish.  I promise I hadn't given him Cheetos.  Because gross.

No cookies but this picture melts me a little...Emma screaming and Braeden kissing her.  He called her Be (for baby) Emma. Who gave them permission to grow up?

Recently I found a gadget to make pressed cookies.

I enlisted my girl's help and we pressed cookies "perfectly and effortlessly" just like the package promised we would (more or less perfectly and effortlessly). Emma dyed them all sorts of bright spring colors.

Braeden detoured through the kitchen several times while they were baking.  He'd pop one in his mouth and swoon.  "Bubba Dahl's cookies," he would say reverently, eyes closed.  Even though he no longer calls my mom that, the cookies are officially named.  I think the cookies made his day.

And that, of course, made mine.