Yesterday, my son decorated Halloween cookies with our neighbor, and I have to say—it was delightfully dull in the best way. This came right after his lunch, which featured canned vegetables and a suspicious-looking sausage that could’ve starred in a horror film. But the cookies? They were wholesome, natural, and oddly charming. He took such joy in smearing frosting, placing candy eyes, and sprinkling sugar like confetti. Today, we tackled the leftover plain ones together, and while they weren’t Pinterest-worthy, they were ours. It was messy, sweet, and full of quiet laughter. Sometimes, dull moments are the ones that stick.
I watched him carefully choose each decoration, his tongue poking out in concentration. He debated between orange or green icing, whether the ghost cookie needed eyebrows, and if the bat should wear a candy bowtie. Our neighbor chimed in with gentle suggestions, and the three of us fell into a rhythm—frost, giggle, repeat. It wasn’t a grand event, but it felt like a celebration. The kind that sneaks up on you. The kind you don’t realize you needed until you’re in the middle of it, covered in sugar and smiling.
The cookies themselves were a mixed bag—some spooky, some silly, some just blobs of color. But each one told a story. There was the “zombie pumpkin” with mismatched eyes, the “confused skeleton” with upside-down bones, and my personal favorite, the “haunted blob,” which defied all cookie logic. We didn’t aim for perfection. We aimed for fun. And in that, we succeeded. It reminded me that creativity doesn’t need polish—it just needs permission. And a little frosting.
Today’s decorating session was quieter, just the two of us finishing what we started. He was more focused, more deliberate. Maybe it was the calm after yesterday’s chaos, or maybe he just wanted to make the last few cookies count. We talked about Halloween costumes, favorite candies, and whether ghosts prefer chocolate or vanilla. It was one of those slow, lovely afternoons where time feels stretchy and kind. The cookies weren’t the point. The connection was.
I took a few photos—not for social media, but for memory’s sake. They’re blurry and imperfect, just like the cookies. But they capture something real. A moment of joy tucked between canned veggies and weird sausage. A reminder that dull doesn’t mean empty. It can mean peaceful, playful, present. And in a world that often demands excitement, I’ll take a quiet cookie moment any day.
So yes, the lunch was questionable, the cookies were chaotic, and the whole thing was wonderfully dull. But it was also warm, sweet, and full of love. And if that’s dull, then I’m all in. Halloween can keep its haunted houses—I’ll take frosting and laughter at the kitchen table.
