It’s a Christmas tradition we’ve kept as long as I can remember, that of baking sugar cookies and dolling them up with sprinkles and whatever else we have on hand. We eat them, mail them – even chase down garbage men with them – and this year is no different.

That’s why there’s flour flying Saturday night as the roller does its “thump, slide, thump, slide” rhythm on the kitchen table, just like all those Decembers before, only now we are joined by grandgirls wearing footed pajamas and stray bits of icing.

“This is as artsy as I get,” spouts Son No. 2, who is doing dough duty beside a wife who enjoys things like this. He is referring to the fact that his cookies will be iced but unsprinkled. “I don’t do sprinkles,” he reminds us again.

The others around the table, armed with green crystals and tubes of writing gel, ignore him.

I myself am the designated baker of batches. While others cut out angels with the plastic shapes Melanie Pace gave me my first Christmas as a mom, I stand guard over things within my control – Fahrenheit and timers. All the while, Trans-Siberian Orchestra plays their familiar canon in the background, and my youngest chatters on about the latest “Hobbit” installment. It is rare that she sees a film before her siblings do, and she is making the most of it.

Son No. 3 proposes an assembly line approach to star production, and he seconds himself. Stars are, after all, the easiest to decorate. Still, I think Henry Ford would be proud.

“Where’s the red icing?” someone asks from the periphery.

“No red this year,” I answer back. I feel eyebrows raise in unison. “Adapt and overcome,” I snap, right before I witness a real offense.

“Hey, I saw you eat that,” I inform the offender.

“Had a broken ear,” he justifies, and it’s hard to know for sure. The cardinal rule of cookie decorating – the “you-can-eat-it-if-it’s-messed-up” one – has led many a child to dismember a perfectly sound gingerbread man.

Meanwhile, the girls are taking their (sweet) time, outlining bells and putting tiny candy holly berries on wreaths. We even have some edible gold dust, and as a result their cookies look too good to eat.

The guys, in contrast, value quantity over quality, and it seems their creativity goes down as the pile goes up. Our assembly line star producer has even resorted to licking his fingers.

“Wash your hands,” I tell him, and he does. (Really, Mr. Garbage Man, he did.)

Son #1 calls during the chaos to talk about an eight-point buck he shot that morning. My husband takes advantage of the situation and switches to his own musical playlist, which is heavy on Bluegrass. I protest.

“We HAVE been listening to Christmas music, Kim,” he responds in a mighty Grinch-like tone. I want to ask him what kind of angels he thinks they’ll produce listening to “Blue Moon of Kentucky”, but it’s not necessary. The cookie crew has finished their work.

Through a blur of past cookie-making memories, I take in the sight of another year’s labors. I finger an iced and sprinkled tree (my favorite) and think about who’ll be missing from the table next year. And who’s missing now. There are some things that even Christmas carols can’t drown out.

That’s when Bluegrass Boy comes close and makes an accusation involving me and a cookie with no broken parts.

“The flour on your bottom lip cannot be denied,” he smiles, and I smile back.

Trust me, I’m not trying.

Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader. Contact her at kimhenderson319@gmail.com.