You probably don’t know this about me, but I love baking. I used to do it a lot when I was living at my parents’ place. Took an interest in it in junior high school, actually. And back then, I felt like such a knob asking my mum if she could show me how to bake.
“You just follow the recipe,” she said, likely looking at me like I’d just asked the dumbest question on earth.
“But what the hell is Demerara sugar?” I probably asked.
“It’s just sugar!”
In spite of my stupidity, my desire to eat cookies and other sweet confections would force my mother into the kitchen to watch over me and ensure I knew what I was doing. Eventually, we established a pattern, once I was able to bake on my own without completely screwing up: I would bake, and she would follow me around the kitchen cleaning up after me. I was in her domain, and she needed things to be just so. My mum’s still like this. She kicks up a fuss at Christmas about having to do all this cooking, but when you offer to help her, she basically tells you to fuck off and stay out of her kitchen. Read the rest of this entry »
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