So, I’ve been doing a lot of baking. I like to cook, but baking is my forte. When I was a kid, somehow, I became the dessert maker in the family. My mother didn’t have time for baking; things had to measured carefully, oven temperatures had to be monitored; and there was all that stirring and beating and pan preparation. She simply didn’t have the time or patience for any of it. Cookies and bread were one thing, but cakes? Forget about it. By default, and because I enjoyed doing it, the job of baker became mine.
Over the years, as more people have been eschewing desserts, particularly rich desserts, I had been doing a lot less of that baking. Lately, though, finding myself with ingredients and a recipe box (it really is an old shoe box) that I haven’t bothered with in some time, I have reverted to my previous role as “baker of the house.”
I’ve left small loaf cakes on the porches of my neighbors; half-dozens of muffins in mailboxes; cinnamon rolls on doorsteps. I drop them off anonymously on the first of my two daily walks, around 6:00 a.m. Of course, my husband and I eat our share (more than our share) and I have not weighed myself in weeks. Baking has been my return to a kind of normalcy; if you do everything right, you are rewarded. If you make a mistake, learn to “make do.”
“Making do” is our motto now.