Shhhh...I love to bake
There are homemade brownies in my refrigerator right now and they are calling to me. Fortunately, I am hiding on the third floor so their siren call is faint. Why are there brownies in your refrigerator if they are so tempting you ask? I made them for my ex-husband's birthday. I swore my daughter to secrecy and made her promise to tell everyone at the birthday barbecue that she'd made them all by herself. My ex dislikes homemade anything--just one of his oddities. I often wondered if maybe he thought I had a hidden stash of strychnine that I might sometime use in his food in a particularly manic moment.
The brownies were a smash hit and as ordered, the plate came home empty. But I saved some to take as a gift on Tuesday and now I must resist the call. My father is a baker. There must be a baking gene because while I never baked with him or for him, it seems to be in my blood. I find it relaxing and exciting at the same time. How pathetic. I like to cut corners in Julia Child fashion--or what I imagine might be her fashion, at least when it comes to baking. I do not tightly pack the brown sugar. I loosely measure flour and sugar and baking soda. I do check carefully to make sure I've included all of the ingredients, but that's the extent of my rigor. I love to make things I've never made before on the spur of the moment. I read the Wednesday food section in the Times always hunting for new recipes--better brownies, the best chocolate chip cookies, the best and easiest crust for pies. It's a minor obsession but a sturdy one.
It's also a secret obsession. I live in a tony town smack full of $3 million houses with sparkling stainless steel kitchens. No one ever cooks in these kitchens except the caterers at holiday time. In these kitchens, there is a drawer filled with take-out menus and the only home cooking is done in the spacious backyard on the gorgeous patio using the spectacular new "grilling system". Certainly no one bakes. Stay at home moms are too busy and working moms are too focused. Stay at home moms bring the drinks and the paper goods for school events. Working moms breeze in at the last minute with packages of plastic forks and knives and tiny store-bought cupcakes with waxy polka dot sprinkles in industrial colors. I do not judge harshly either approach though I certainly allow a pinch of self-satisfaction when people taste my baked goods and rave. But I toss off compliments and when I say "it's no big deal", I really do mean it.
I would not be considered a serious mother if it were known that I not only like to bake but that I will make time to bake. I think that many moms of both stripes wish they could bake or had time to bake. I hear that some people actually have trouble with the exact nature of baking. I scoff inwardly at this, picturing my own less than uniform approach. (The other day when I making the unspeakably fabulous brownies for the "ex", I got a call from a male friend and we proceeded to have a lengthy, sometimes angry discussion that lasted a good hour. At the same time, I was attempting to defrost a pound of unsalted butter and then soften two sticks. I would put it in the microwave while I was talking and then I'd stomp upstairs in order to get some privacy. I needed privacy to yell quietly. Then our discussion would get less intense and I'd come downstairs to find the microwave full of melted butter. Ugh. One pound later I had what I needed for the recipe. I can't see Rachel Ray doing that, never mind Julia Child.)
There are always tradeoffs in the eternal "good mother" contest. While I like to bake, I hate to attend school functions. I hate back to school night. I hate the tension of listening to the primary grade teacher--who is always young enough to be the result of a teenage pregnancy for someone my age--"um" or talk in grand terms about spelling. I end up gnashing my teeth and wishing for the 100th time that we could afford private school. But that's not all. I also dread school plays, school chorus concerts and even piano recitals. I must say I don't mind piano recitals as much. Maybe because the lessons cost so much? About half the amount of property taxes we pay to live in this hoity-toity mecca of civilization. I'm sure a lynch mob would appear in my driveway if this fact ever got out. Now I'm going downstairs to put the brownies in the freezer. That siren call of "eat me, eat me" is harder to hear from the freezer.
The brownies were a smash hit and as ordered, the plate came home empty. But I saved some to take as a gift on Tuesday and now I must resist the call. My father is a baker. There must be a baking gene because while I never baked with him or for him, it seems to be in my blood. I find it relaxing and exciting at the same time. How pathetic. I like to cut corners in Julia Child fashion--or what I imagine might be her fashion, at least when it comes to baking. I do not tightly pack the brown sugar. I loosely measure flour and sugar and baking soda. I do check carefully to make sure I've included all of the ingredients, but that's the extent of my rigor. I love to make things I've never made before on the spur of the moment. I read the Wednesday food section in the Times always hunting for new recipes--better brownies, the best chocolate chip cookies, the best and easiest crust for pies. It's a minor obsession but a sturdy one.
It's also a secret obsession. I live in a tony town smack full of $3 million houses with sparkling stainless steel kitchens. No one ever cooks in these kitchens except the caterers at holiday time. In these kitchens, there is a drawer filled with take-out menus and the only home cooking is done in the spacious backyard on the gorgeous patio using the spectacular new "grilling system". Certainly no one bakes. Stay at home moms are too busy and working moms are too focused. Stay at home moms bring the drinks and the paper goods for school events. Working moms breeze in at the last minute with packages of plastic forks and knives and tiny store-bought cupcakes with waxy polka dot sprinkles in industrial colors. I do not judge harshly either approach though I certainly allow a pinch of self-satisfaction when people taste my baked goods and rave. But I toss off compliments and when I say "it's no big deal", I really do mean it.
I would not be considered a serious mother if it were known that I not only like to bake but that I will make time to bake. I think that many moms of both stripes wish they could bake or had time to bake. I hear that some people actually have trouble with the exact nature of baking. I scoff inwardly at this, picturing my own less than uniform approach. (The other day when I making the unspeakably fabulous brownies for the "ex", I got a call from a male friend and we proceeded to have a lengthy, sometimes angry discussion that lasted a good hour. At the same time, I was attempting to defrost a pound of unsalted butter and then soften two sticks. I would put it in the microwave while I was talking and then I'd stomp upstairs in order to get some privacy. I needed privacy to yell quietly. Then our discussion would get less intense and I'd come downstairs to find the microwave full of melted butter. Ugh. One pound later I had what I needed for the recipe. I can't see Rachel Ray doing that, never mind Julia Child.)
There are always tradeoffs in the eternal "good mother" contest. While I like to bake, I hate to attend school functions. I hate back to school night. I hate the tension of listening to the primary grade teacher--who is always young enough to be the result of a teenage pregnancy for someone my age--"um" or talk in grand terms about spelling. I end up gnashing my teeth and wishing for the 100th time that we could afford private school. But that's not all. I also dread school plays, school chorus concerts and even piano recitals. I must say I don't mind piano recitals as much. Maybe because the lessons cost so much? About half the amount of property taxes we pay to live in this hoity-toity mecca of civilization. I'm sure a lynch mob would appear in my driveway if this fact ever got out. Now I'm going downstairs to put the brownies in the freezer. That siren call of "eat me, eat me" is harder to hear from the freezer.
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