Dear Esteemed Representatives of Pillsbury,
I find myself in the midst of a Christmas cookie crisis, and I’m reaching out for your understanding. The festive spirit has dwindled, and it appears I’ve reached my limit.
In an effort to recreate the delightful memories your cheerful advertisements promise, I’ve attempted to bake cookies with my adorable little ones—four times in just one week. But alas, each time has ended in culinary chaos.
Following the enchanting scenes depicted in your commercials, I’ve filled the air with Christmas carols, dressed the children in matching reindeer sweaters, and set out a selection of mugs brimming with hot cocoa. I envisioned my children mirroring those blissful kids in your ads—smiling, sharing, and savoring our perfectly decorated sugar cookies. But dreams can only take us so far.
I propose that you consider creating a more realistic portrayal of holiday baking in your advertisements. It would be a kindness to all the mothers out there who, like me, find themselves overwhelmed. Perhaps you could feature a scene with a frazzled mom muttering under her breath as she battles stubborn dough that clings to everything in sight, along with a cup of “mommy juice” nearby.
There seems to be a vast difference between the scenes in your commercials and the reality of my kitchen. Where are the kids who sneak bites of raw dough while comforting their frazzled mother with, “It’s okay; we like them this way”? Why is there no mention of the teacher’s request for “non-denominational yet festive” cookie shapes? (I can’t even manage a simple circle!) And where is that mischievous dough boy when I need him?
Who are these radiant women effortlessly serving trays of perfectly shaped cookies to their appreciative children? Are they real? If so, can I hire them to come help me? They could also keep an eye on my baby, who has a knack for getting stuck in the tree while trying to feed tinsel to the dog.
I cannot help but wonder if your commercials could include the reality of flour in my hair, the scent of burnt sugar wafting through the air, or the sounds of my kids arguing over why they can’t use the Halloween ghost cookie cutter to make angels.
It feels as though your advertising is undermining the confidence of mothers everywhere. You make it seem so simple by packaging the ingredients neatly, leaving us to just roll out the dough and cut the shapes. But what if my gingerbread girl ends up looking more like a stick figure than a festive treat? How am I supposed to present a two-inch thick angel cookie that remains stuck to the table?
Where is MY perfect winter day? Where are MY cherished holiday memories? What would the little dough boy think if he heard my husband come home, smell burnt cookies in my hair, and ask, “Is that a new perfume? Want to go upstairs?”
The average consumer deserves better! Please, spare us the image of robotic women effortlessly baking masterpieces. We need authentic representation. We want to feel that we’re not failures simply because we can’t bake like the women in your ads. And while you’re at it, could you please inform the gingerbread house kit makers that their product is less than effective? My son managed to use the icing to stick his matchbox cars to the fireplace, but it did nothing to hold our candy house together.
This Christmas, let’s keep it real. Show us the mother who is tempted to make all her cookies in the shape of a middle finger (that’s me, in case you missed it). Highlight the children who might be regretting their raw dough indulgence and secretly wishing their mom would volunteer to bring paper goods to the class party instead. Let’s see the Christmas music not playing because “someone” left the bathroom door open, and the baby decided to take a dip with the CDs (true story). Show me the mom who would rather strangle the dough boy than poke his belly.
Only by portraying these genuine moments will we be able to truly “stir up a batch of memories” that any sane person would want to cherish.
Wishing you a joyful holiday season. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from me again come Easter.
Sincerely,
Samantha Thompson