I have a friend who believes in the Great Christmas Elephant. This is no half-baked relation of the Great Pumpkin, friends. This is a big circus elephant decked out in red and green velvet and spangly things whose sole mission in life is to back up and sit on you, smothering you with its giant Christmas-y butt. I decided a few years ago that the Elephant needed a sound effect, so like everything on the road these days that isn’t stamped “Tonka”, the Elephant beeps as it backs up. (Dear God. It has recently come to my attention that certain brands of toy trucks actually beep when they back up. Civilization is crumbling!)

I do not have a problem with the Christmas Elephant. For the most part, it is my friend, and I ride it happily to go shopping and stand in line at Rheb’s Chocolates with all the little old ladies and their lists of who likes what. I’m fond of Christmas in general, if for no other reason than it reminds me of big downtown department stores. I don’t feel smothered by Christmas; it’s a fun time and you get loot (even though I long ago hit the age when socks could be considered acceptable loot). And of course there’s my beloved eggnog.

No, I live in fear of the Great Christmas Baking Elephant. When I had my first apartment (some of the readers here may recall that commodious, elegant Williamsburg address), I felt compelled to make it “just like home” and do some Christmas baking. After a couple of years, I got pretty good at it.

By now Christmas foodstuffs have become a giant albatross-shaped ginger cookie around my neck. I think it’s really supposed to be a dove of peace, but I’m telling you it’s an albatross (which should tell you that I have no idea what an actual albatross looks like). I have convinced myself that I must — nay, am bound by divine decree — to crank out cookies by the thousands, little tiny Dresdner-Stollen to give away and an almond-studded Gugelhupf for Christmas morning.

As I type, there are two boxes of Pfeffernuesse “curing” behind the TV (they need to be someplace warm), Springerle dough waiting in the freezer since I didn’t have time to bake it last night, and a jar of citron so I can put little “leaves” on the Berliner-Kranze that need to be made tonight. I am trying desperately not to think about the rolled cookies that haven’t been made.

This may be the last year of obsessive baking. I caught myself last night drawing up plans for a little gingerbread version of St. Alphonsus Church, which indicates that I may need professional help. Next Christmas, you’re all getting a box of Berger’s cookies and you’d better enjoy them.