(And for the love of the sweet eight pound, six ounce newborn baby Jesus, I still can't figure out why not.)
There were ten of us altogether--four women and six children.
Conditions were right for makin' blog.
And not just because all four of us are bloggers (Lovey, Bribee, Emma, and myself), but because I, for one, am not a natural-born baker. I suck at it. My motto? "They sell cookies down at Safeway, you know."
Apparently, this makes me an outcast among women. There's an unwritten code that I understand to mean 'feeding your child store-bought baked goods is as good as serving up Magnetix with a side of iron shavings, you horrible, horrible toad.' Or something to that effect.
Even my mom used to tell me that I'd never find a man to love me if I didn't learn the art of culinary seduction. While every daughter, I'm sure, appreciates her mother's attempts at utilizing archaic forms of male subjugation on the female persuasion by relegating them to the archetypically dependent and perpetually knocked up hausfrau, I was decidedly less enamored with the idea. I was going to find a man who loved me for my mind, damn it! And if all else failed... Well, I have a nice rack.
And I ain't talkin' the kind you cool cookies on.
High five, up top!
But as much as I despised my mom's old skool way of thinking, even I had to admit she was sorta right. The old adage about the way to a man's heart being through his stomach isn't exactly hogwash. My
There's a difference, however, between cooking and baking. Cooking I can do. Marinating, basting, grilling, seasoning--that's not a problem.
Baking? That's a problem.
I don't know. Maybe it's because meat and potatoes are more forgiving than delicate, flaky pastries. Baking seems like such a feminine thing, which makes me feel in some small way as though I'm less of a woman for not excelling at it. Especially given that my husband loves, loves, loves baked goods. (He now wants the Gingerbread Girl to have his babies. I'm crushed.)
Regardless, I do feel a little better since yesterday. I only managed to burn one pot holder (sorry, Lovey!), and one batch of oatmeal butterscotch cookies. Plus, my peanut butter honey brownies didn't turn out half bad. So, I guess the moral of the story is...
Next year, me and my rack are staying home.