Sugar Sweet

“I don’t think you’re supposed to eat that raw,” Marilyn Manson sighed, wearily looking over at his best friend, Twiggy Ramirez, who was eating cookie dough out of the mixing bowl.
“Afraid I’ll get salmonella and die?”
Marilyn shook his head. It was pointless, trying to talk sense into his childish bassist. “Just…let’s roll out the dough.”
“But, that’ll take FOREVER.”
“Well, you’re the one who wanted to bake cookies, aren’t you?”
“Christmas cookies. How are these Christmas cookies? You didn’t even buy the little silver ball things or the red and green sugar I asked for.”
“I told you, we don’t need all of that. We have cookie cutters and there’s still some icing from when we made Ginger’s birthday cake.”
Twiggy stopped sucking batter from his fingers, washed his hands, and got out a rolling pin. He could sense that Marilyn was getting tired of his antics. It was two days before Christmas, and tonight was the big holiday party they were throwing. There were a million things to be done, and baking cookies wasn’t one of them.
The party hadn’t really been their idea. Their manager had suggested it as a way to make new “important” friends in the industry. In the end, the only people on the guest list they even knew were the other members of the band and their manager.
“Twiggy! What are you doing?”
The bassist was swinging the rolling pin in one hand, sticking his other hand into the dough and plopping it down onto the floured counter.
“Just spread it out, and I’ll help you.”
Together, they rolled out the dough, and Marilyn floured the top of it while Twiggy picked out the cookie cutters he wanted to use.
Surprisingly, they managed to get the cookies cut and onto baking sheets with little mess and no arguing. Marilyn put the first two trays into the oven, and watched Twiggy sort through the few decorations they had for their treats.
“Okay, can you handle this now? I need to go set up the living room.”
Twiggy nodded. He knew that Marilyn really didn’t enjoy cooking, and that he was getting tense about everything that still needed to be done.
“Just don’t burn down the kitchen, okay?”
He stuck his tongue out. He cooked all of the time, and not once had he had a fire. Marilyn always treated him like a little kid. Why couldn’t he see that he was an adult, too?
Marilyn left the kitchen, taking a pad of paper and a pen with him. He started taking notes, and was in the middle of deciding where to set up the folding table when he smelled something foul coming from the kitchen.
“Twiggy Ramirez, where are you?”
“Here! Ow!”
Marilyn stormed into the kitchen, finding Twiggy rubbing his forearm, a tray of blackened cookies face down on the tile floor.
“I burned the potholders.”
He looked at the singed material. “I see that.”
“I burned my arm.”
“I see that, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, just clean it up, okay?”
He nodded, looking at the puffy red welt on his arm.
“You should ice that.”
“Yeah.” He got down on the floor, scooping up the broken, charred cookie bits. He cleaned the mess up, and looked at the oven. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t burn things like that. He was a good cook. At least, most of the time.
Wait…what did that knob say? He leaned in closer. 475 degrees? Well, no wonder they’d burned! He dialed it back to 325 degrees, and put in the last two trays. His arm was really starting to hurt. He grabbed some ice, put it in a towel, and rubbed it over the burn. It was getting puckery and turning dark.
Hadn’t he checked the temperature of the oven before he’d put the cookies in? He’d sworn that he had. It wasn’t like him to be so careless in the kitchen.
When the second batch of cookies were done, he laid them out to cool, and went to help Marilyn set up for the party.
“How’s your arm?”
“Okay.”
“Let me see.”
He held it out, letting Marilyn inspect it. “It’s not serious. Does it hurt?”
“A bit.”
“Does the ice help?”
“Not really.”
“All right. Want me to wrap it for you?”
“No.”
Marilyn sighed. “Fine. We’re done in here. Let’s go finish your cookies.”
They each took half of the cookies, decorating them. Of course, Twiggy’s were brightly colored and outlandish, while Marilyn’s were sparsely and tastefully decorated.
“Think you used enough icing?”
“Maybe.”
“Those are going to taste bitter with all of that dye.”
“So?”
Marilyn rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask me to eat them.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s only five. We could make some more, for the party,” Marilyn suggested. Really, he just wanted to keep busy so he didn’t think about what he’d gotten himself into with this party.
This time, Twiggy wasn’t so adult. He had flour all over the counters, cabinets, and sink, and was running around in circles.
“Dude, chill out.”
Twiggy scooped up some flour, and dumped it over Marilyn’s head.
“You little-” he scooped up a handful of flour himself, tossing it into the bassist’s face.
They were squealing and laughing, tackling each other, getting flour all over the kitchen. Finally, Marilyn had Twiggy pinned to the floor, and he was sitting on his stomach, flouring his face. It felt really good, for once, letting himself be as childish as his friend.
Twiggy spat out flour, laughing hysterically, pushing at Marilyn. “You’re crushing me! Get off!”
“Somehow, I think you’ll be just fine.”
They both burst into laughter, but Marilyn did slide off, straightening his own clothing, then helping the flour covered bassist up.
“I need a shower.”
“Yeah. You go do that, I’ll put the cookies in.”
Twiggy headed off, leaving powdery white trails and prints behind him.
They managed to have everything, including themselves, clean by the time the first guests started arriving at seven.
It was almost the end of the night when Pogo was having a drink with Twiggy and noticed something sticking out of his hair. “Hey, man, what’s that?”
Twiggy reached up, and pulled a dried clump of flour from his hair. He laughed. “Oh, nothing. It’s just flour.”
They keyboardist looked at him curiously.
“What? Marilyn and I did some baking.”
“And you got flour in your hair?”
He shrugged. “Things happen.”
They both laughed.
“Those cookies you served, is that what you made?”
Twiggy nodded.
“The chocolate chip ones?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Sure, you did.”
“Guess that’s why my stomach hurts.”
Twiggy playfully punched him in the arm.
“Okay, I’m sorry. Your cookies were good.”
“I know.”
Marilyn came over, a young woman on his arm. “Twiggy, this is Rose. Rose, this is Twiggy.”
They nodded politely to each other, and Marilyn led her away.
“I wonder what’s up with the chick?” Pogo asked his band mate.
Twiggy shrugged. Tonight, he really didn’t care.