I walked in Judy's Bakery, and thought the unthinkable. I'll buy the cookies instead of make them.

I looked longingly at the white frosted trees. My hand stretched out towards the green spangled stars. Think of the time it would save, the hours tripling the recipe, waiting for the dough to chill, baking, cooling, and most stressful and time-consuming of all, painstakingly decorating 12 dozen cookies.

That's right, 12 dozen. Because I've been invited to a holiday cookie exchange.

For those of you who have never had the good fortune to attend one, this is how they work. If twelve people come, you bring 12 dozen cookies, a dozen for each person and one for the table. Then you trade. You leave with a dozen from everyone else.

I was ecstatic when the invitation arrived to my first cookie exchange. The problem of what to serve at my Christmas Eve open house was solved. I'd serve 12 dozen homemade cookies.

I was such an innocent. I accepted the invitation right away, but I didn't give it another thought until the day of the exchange.

I trotted blithely off to the grocery store, scored the ingredients, trotted back home, and whipped up those humble, time proven favorites; Toll House Chocolate Chips. That was my first bad idea.

I put each dozen on a white paper plate and covered them with aluminum foil. That was my second.

I walked in to the cookie exchange like a babe in the woods. I was curious about what the other cookies would be, probably sugar, maybe shortbread, and if someone got really ambitious, oatmeal. I was the last to arrive. I walked in the kitchen, put my cookies down on the counter, and my heart stopped.

I had yet to set eyes on a cookie. The other cookies' packaging alone gave me palpitations.

They were covered with rose-tinted wrap, and snowman patterned tissue. They were tied up with ribbons and candy canes. They were artistically arranged on holiday-colored plates, and cradled in pretty little bow-tied boxes.

I prayed that it was just the packaging, that underneath were simple cookies, plain cookies, cookies that might not look bakery perfect but would taste delicious.

Then I glanced at the cookies already out on the table. My prayers were not answered.

There in the dining room was an Olympics of cookies, an art gallery of cookies, a greatest hits of cookies.

There were red and green swirl cookies, triple layer chocolate cookies, delicate little puffs of meringue cookies. They were embellished with sprinkles, festooned with icing, adorned with colored sugars.

I was sweating bullets. I wanted to sink through the floor. I wanted to suddenly be taken ill. I wanted to say I'd been ill, that I had two broken arms and the bubonic plague, and it was a miracle I managed to make cookies at all.

I wanted anything but to walk in that dining room with everyday cookies on a white paper plate.

The other women didn't shun me or laugh. They were polite, but I knew inside they were horrified and disgusted, and so was I.

To my amazement, I was invited back next year. The invitation came with a warning. No everyday cookies, it said.

As I stood in Judy's Bakery, I wondered. What would happen if I did the dirty deed, if I bought cookies and lied? Would the women suspect? Would next year's invitation come with three warnings; no everyday cookies, no cheating, and no Martha Rubenstein? I'll never know. Because I'm not buying those beautiful cookies in Judy's Bakery.

For weeks, I've been collecting supplies. I have new cookie cutters in the shapes of ornaments and mittens. I have sugars in every color of the rainbow. I have edible glitter, and tree shaped sprinkles.

I'm going to my second holiday cookie exchange. And I'm going to be redeemed.