Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!!!
I bumped into someone in Cronigs, all of us in that joyous shopping pre-storm energy. She was buying roasts and chickens and turkey burgers and I was buying heavy cream (for my coffee and my phlem support) and we exchanged anticipatory excitement about the impending white out they always promise but never deliver.
I said, “Happy baking.”She said, “What are you going to bake?”
And I said, “Nothing but I always think that snow storms give permission to eat the naughty no-nos of regular days with regular schedules with regular weather. But snow means chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins and apple pie,” and the more I talked the more I knew I was going to come home and bake.
I’m not a baker. I don’t measure. I never have all the ingredients.
Joel has shoveled a path for the cat and a path to the hot tub and I have carried in almost a half cord of wet wood for the stove and fire place. It’s so cozy in here. And just now writing about baking I heard myself say – “Oooh I could bake an apple pie….Ever so often your inner baker speaks. And I could actually do it if I knew how to make a crust.”
We both cracked up.
But I will call Angela, my angel of a daughter-in-law, (who makes the best pies in the world) and she will tell me what to do and either I will go without or try it out. These kinds of risks are soul growing (and stomach stretching).
What if it turns out underneath the facade of being a writer, a teacher, a talker, a walker, a midnight stalker, I’m really a baker.I’ll keep ya’ll posted. I already have the name for my company: BAKED!