Early in the morning on the first Thursday in December, two days before the Christmas bazaar, an eager group of us gathers to box the cookies. Everyone finds a station: bakery box assembly, ribbon cutting, opening up the tins, and organizing the cookies. We now have a rough count of each cookie variety, and a number is scrawled on a scrap of paper beside each tin to tell the packers exactly how many of each type should be included in every box. Then, like children playing musical chairs, we move round and round the table, each of us with a bakery box, picking up the designated number of cookies—pecan squares, stars, snowmen, scotties, santas—tin by tin. The game continues until all the cookies are gone. Filled boxes are passed to ribbon tiers, beribboned boxes are stacked onto a rolling cart, and the cart is wheeled into the unheated church. There, the white boxes wait, quietly, like perfect children, until Saturday morning, when they're brought back into the library to be sold. Like Christmas Day itself, the actual cookie sale seems almost anticlimactic. Neighbors, friends, and people who've always gotten their Christmas cookies at the Trinity Church bazaar line up before the doors open, and wait to buy their two boxes. Less than an hour later, the last of the four hundred or so boxes has disappeared.