Dear Wonderful Folks at Pillsbury,
I find myself reaching out to you from the depths of holiday baking chaos. My festive spirit has nearly vanished, and I plead for your understanding.
For the fourth time this week, I’ve attempted—following the cheerful prompts of your advertisements—to “stir up a batch of memories” by baking cookies with my delightful children. Yet, I’ve encountered failure yet again.
In an effort to replicate the picture-perfect scenes from your commercials, I’ve played Christmas carols, dressed the kids in their matching reindeer sweaters, and ensured that our kitchen counters overflow with mugs filled to the brim with hot cocoa. I envisioned my children just like those in your ads—sharing, smiling, and joyfully sampling our perfectly iced sugar cookies adorned with tiny facial features. But alas, imagination only gets one so far.
Would you consider doing a favor for moms like me and recreate your commercials to reflect the reality of holiday baking? Show us the truth behind the scenes so we can stop being inspired by your idyllic portrayals just as we prepare for the neighborhood cookie swap (the one that demands 45 dozen cookies to be baked and packaged by Saturday). Feel free to draw inspiration from my home—picture an exhausted mom muttering under her breath while the dough clings stubbornly to the table, rolling pin, and the cup of “mommy juice” at her side.
There seems to be a significant discrepancy between your holiday experience and mine. Where are the children joyfully stuffing their cheeks with raw dough while trying to console their frazzled mother with phrases like, “It’s okay, we prefer it this way”? Where in your ads for the “perfect winter day” is the teacher requesting cookies in “non-denominational but festive” shapes? (As if I can even manage a simple circle!) And where is that mischievous little dough boy when I could really use him?
Who are these cheerful women serving trays of flawlessly rounded cookies to their appreciative kids? Are they real? If so, could I hire them to come and assist? I could certainly use a hand keeping an eye on the baby, who seems intent on decorating the tree with tinsel while holding onto the dog’s tail. Meanwhile, I’m trying to transfer a lopsided gingerbread man from my poorly floured surface to the cookie sheet precariously balanced atop a mountain of dirty dishes.
I’ve come to recognize that your ads may be undermining the confidence of American women. You make it seem so simple by pre-packaging the ingredients into a neat little cylinder. All I need to do is roll it out and cut out the shapes, and voila! Happy kids, a tidy kitchen, and a smiling mom… right? But what happens when the gingerbread girl emerges so thin she looks unwell, and the stars have morphed into a bizarre octopus shape?
How can I make an angel, whose body is two inches thick and whose head is stuck to the countertop, look appetizing for a group of four-year-olds? Where is MY perfect winter day? Where are MY cherished memories? What would the little dough boy think if he heard my husband return home, inhale the scent of burnt cookies in my hair, and say, “Wow, is that new perfume? How about we head upstairs?”
The American consumer deserves authenticity! Please, spare us from any more commercials featuring flawless women who can whip up mini-masterpieces effortlessly. We crave the truth this Christmas. We want to feel validated instead of like failures just because baking isn’t our forte. And while you’re at it, it would be great if you could let the gingerbread house folks know that their kit is a joke. The icing couldn’t hold my candy house together, yet was strong enough for my son to glue his matchbox cars to the fireplace.
This Christmas, I ask for honesty. Bring on the mom who’s tempted to shape all her cookies like her middle finger (that’s me if you hadn’t caught on). Bring forth the kids who are feeling sick from indulging in raw dough and secretly wishing their mother would volunteer to bring paper goods to every class party from now on. Bring back the Christmas music that is muted because “someone” left the bathroom door ajar and the baby decided to toss the CDs in the toilet (true story). Show me the mother who would rather strangle the plump little dough boy than poke his tummy. Because only then can we truly “stir up a batch of memories” that any reasonably sane person would cherish.
Happy Holidays! I’m sure I’ll be reaching out again come Easter.
Warm regards,
Linda Thompson