I was quite a baker in my youth. I watched my mom make things from scratch, and still smugly shun most store-bought baked goods.
In those halcyon days, when I had too much time, (and actually thought I was busy) I could spend an entire evening or Saturday in a leisurely bake-fest. I would listen to my favorite Christmas music while I took my time measuring, mixing, blending, baking and icing — completely uninterrupted.
It’s comforting to know that I was once capable of all that. Motherhood, for me, meant less oven and lots more microwave. During the first few years, I easily set aside any serious baking. It didn’t bother me much, since I was on a perpetual post-baby diet anyway, and my toddlers would eat any bargain cookie I put in front of them.
Then I realized my poor husband was wildly devouring any homemade desserts we might stumble upon at parties, and I began to feel a little guilty. He almost whimpered with delight whenever my mother served up dessert. When my mom started baking extra pies, just to send home with us, I decided it was time to get back into the kitchen.
I made a special trip to the market and bought large bags of flour and sugar and butter, then hunted up my old recipes, all handed down from my mom. It would be fun, I thought innocently. The kids can help. You know the rest. The kids did help. First they dug through the sandbox to recover half my utensils, rusted and bent.
Then they helped me spill things, drop eggs, fight over who got to stand on the stool, who got to lick the bowl or beaters first, and utterly distract me. We had fun, I guess, but most of the cakes were not what you would call “Bon Appetit” cover-shot material. We gave the results to our friends anyway, but I was moved to include this poem.
Christmas is a-coming
With goodies for the eating.
We tried to bake some Christmas cake,
But our success was fleeting.
The oven wasn’t hot enough,
And help from kids so small,
Let the beaters fling the dough
All across the wall.
I couldn’t find my teaspoon
Or sifter for the flour.
What used to be a cinch
Took more than an hour.
We didn’t grease the pans enough
So some cakes fell apart.
How glad we are that Christmas cakes
Are tasted with the heart.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer who looks back on those messy kitchens fondly. Contact her at [email protected].
