Aaaah…It’s almost grilling season. That magical time of the year when Hubby takes over the cooking. When I can sip a cold glass of white wine on the patio, my bare toes resting on the warm bricks, watching my daughter flit about the yard building fairy houses. The kitchen remains clean. Dinners are fresh and tasty. We all slow down. We take a little more time to enjoy the lingering sunshine.
Unfortunately, I have to be a good mother and bake with my daughter when she wants to bake. I don’t bake. I think baking is repressive, confining, very messy (hello OCD) and produces sugary stuff that I don’t like to eat anyway. And yet, I found myself baking again, last weekend.
I rope myself into this, mind you. I take all the blame. When my daughter was in first grade I received that call from her school that no one wants to get…That dreaded what-do-you-plan-to-contribute-to-the-bake-sale call. “Money,” I readily replied. The chipper voice on the other end of the call explained rather patronizingly that they needed actual baked goods. Why? Can’t they just take a check and deposit into the account they are trying to fund? Apparently not. And it was at that moment that I heard myself cheerfully volunteer to make thirty raspberry scones. And what I mean by that is, I actually floated out of my body and watched and listened as I said this and hung up the phone! No chance of calling back to plead temporary insanity!
I have mentally blocked out most of that memory, that scone baking nightmare. I do remember Hubby finding me in the kitchen weeping, my hands in the air coated in thick gloves of sticky dough, a wooden spoon glued to one ot them, flour everywhere. That’s all I remember.
Oatmeal cookies. My daughter wanted to bake cookies, I chose oatmeal. I followed the recipe and stuck them in the oven. I took them out of the oven. I stared down at the pan. What the…what ARE these? They ran together into one giant sheet cake cookie that was weirdly crispy but not in a good french fry kind of way. Oatmeal sheet cake, as I have discovered, should not be this…um…crispy.
Hubby found me in the kitchen, staring at the pan.
Hubs: “Honey? What are you doing?”
Me: “I’m a bad mother. I can’t even bake with my daughter.”
Hubs: “You’re a good mother. The cookies look…I’m sure they’re fine.”
Hubs: “Honey, really.”
Hubs: “They can’t be that bad.” He tastes one. “Look, you don’t have to prove you’re a good mother by baking.”
Please tell me I am not the only mother that cannot bake. Do you have a baking nightmare to make me feel okay ? lol