As with most things, I’ve tried to figure this out. Why do I bake? I’m not domestic, per se. I don’t pride myself on being a perfect wife or an adoring mother. I don’t bake cookies with my kids, I don’t mess up the kitchen and just have crazy fun making all kinds of confections. I hate to cook, but I love to bake and, ask my family, I always bake alone.
Here’s what I’ve come up with so far. I like the certainty of it. I like that there are exact measurements and rules. If I mix specific ingredients and mix them the way I’m supposed to, if I follow the instructions there is a yummy treat, a reward, at the end. I share a great deal of my life with others and it seems logical that baking would be a fun part of that life, but not for me. I’m a neat baker. I clean as I go, I don’t lick my fingers and baking for me is serious business. I don’t want other people’s opinions, at least not until I’m done.
When I’m done, when I have the reward, there’s a sense of calm and accomplishment. I made something. I enjoy nothing more than sharing my creations with the people I love. There are times I don’t even eat what I bake. I have been know to bake all day long.
I’m not sure what all this says about me, but life feels a lot more like cooking. High flame, low flame, simmering, add a dash of this and a pinch of that, smell, taste. Cooking is all consuming and messy and you need to improvise and modify. That really makes all the difference in cooking. Recipes give you the basics, but the best chefs add their own flavor. I’m not a fan of cooking. Way too much can go wrong.
Maybe I bake because when I’m not baking life demands that I cook.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Rise.