And you thought I only invented Mikey burgers

I’ve never roasted chestnuts on an open fire, nor have I ever prepared a plum pudding, but I’m no stranger to the culinary arts.

And not just at Christmastime, though I’ve done my share of that.

Lest you imagine my concoctions have all been successes, allow me to dispel that assumption here and now. Many’s the meal that has gone off the rails, usually because it’s not often I stick to any recipe, preferring to improvise as I go along, relying on instinct rather than instruction … sort of the way I write.

But I’ve seldom hesitated to attempt something new, whether it was playing around with a wok or experimenting with a deep fryer, figuring out how to barbecue indoors or seeing just how many times I had to try before mastering the use of a cast-iron skillet.

I’ve smoked turkey and jerky, seared pot roasts, braised Cornish game hens, roasted and broiled chicken, grilled salmon, tossed together antipasto, and perfected a broccoli and cheese casserole, one that includes brie, bleu, Philly cream and grated Parmesan.

At this time of year, it’s fun to add peppers and pimento, just for presentation purposes, those reds complementing the greens nicely.

I’ve sautéed scallops, marinated beef in brine and in wine, created chicken cordon bleu, grilled T-bones and braised liver. I’ve done pepperoni and anchovy pizza, thrown together a dozen plump scampi into a creamy fettuccini sauce, made tortellini soup, served up more spaghetti and meatballs than I can remember, and most every Christmas Eve, prepared tuna noodle casserole served with crusty bread and shrimp and mushroom chowder, always a winner.

But a warning on the chowder: You must go easy on the dill.

Trust me on this. It’s like overdoing saffron ... a little’s enough.

I’ve cooked indoors and out, grilled in the woods and on the beach, worked with rusted cookers in state parks, served food with a view of mountains and valleys, lakes and rivers. I’ve dealt with gas and electric ovens, in oceanfront cottages and in friends’ kitchens, prepared meals for longtime loves and first-time dates, volunteered to lend a hand when it was needed, and always enjoyed doing it all.

But there’s one thing I’ve been unable to replicate or even approach, a taste treat so simple it ought to have been easy.

I can’t seem to crack the code of Mom’s Christmas cookies.

A mother’s meals, whether they be packed sack lunches or celebratory birthday suppers, occupy a special place in our collective memory banks, a cozy nook in the mind’s eye that remains inviolate to the passage of time and the years’ toll.

For some, it’s a filling breakfast before school, and for others, it’s Salisbury steak dinners, with fluffy mashed potatoes and gravy.

Every mother specialized in what’s known as “comfort food,” a simple dish that always satisfied, whether it was meatloaf, chili, spaghetti or, in my case, a one-pot concoction called Johnny Marzetti, which was a mixture of elbow macaroni, ground beef, assorted vegetables and cheese. I still make it once a month.

Times changed and convenience came to mean faster preparation, ushering in an era of Shake’n Bake, fish sticks, Manwich, Spaghettio’s and Tater Tots. Pop-Tarts came along, followed by new cereals like Lucky Charms, Cap’n Crunch and Count Chocula.

Mom always had something sweet for dessert, usually ice cream, but she knew her way around baking tins too, so she was adept at Boston cream pie, cheesecake, brownies and frosted cupcakes.

But her Christmas cookies were next-level great, top of the charts.

Every year around this time, she’d pull out a well-worn paperback cookbook, part of a collection she stored in a cabinet above the oven. She’d turn to the recipe for sugar cookies, tie on an apron, find her rolling pin, have the flour canister handy, and locate the food coloring and the little bottle of vanilla extract. I don’t think she ever had to replace it, just used a dozen drops every December.

After dusting the cutting board with flour, she’d spread the dough and then, using cookie cutters that had been around since the Kennedy administration, would create stars and wreaths and bells before placing them on a greased cookie sheet. When that happened, I knew it was time to ask for her permission to eat the leftover cookie dough, little islands of seasonal sweetness scattered here and there. Every year Mom said the same thing.

“That’ll just sit on your stomach,” but I didn’t care. To me, those remnants were almost as good as the baked cookies themselves.

After 10 minutes or so, she’d remove the sheet, let the cookies cool and then invite the three of us to apply the icing, mostly greens and reds. We had the best time, always making sure to lick the spoon.

The flour sifter is still in a box somewhere, as is her rolling pin, and I’m fairly certain those glossy-covered cookbooks are around too. But it wouldn’t make a lot of difference if I ever found that cache.

Even if I followed the recipe step by step, there’s no way I could replicate the wonder of what I remember, the aroma in the kitchen as the cookies baked and the radio atop the refrigerator playing Christmas music, snow falling outside and the love in the room.

I may be good when it comes to cooking, but I can’t make miracles.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where improvisation is the name of the game.