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I'm not not a baker

Once, many years ago, my boss was sharing his guidelines for hiring or not hiring an interview candidate. There was the common sense stuff such as: Are they dressed professionally? Are they articulate in their answers? Have they ever left a job on bad terms before? But for some reason, the item he really chose to harp on was the use of double negatives. “If they use a double negative, don’t hire them!” he yelled. He repeated this nugget of information at least a dozen million times over my next 3 years of employment. It’s like he couldn’t let it go. He was a man obsessed. So I guess I’m giving up my chances of ever being hired again by entitling this post: I’m not not a baker.

Yes, it’s a double negative.

But it expresses a terrifying truth.

After I recently shared a recipe for some delectable cookies, my blogging friend from The Pajama Chef (Sarah) made a comment saying (and I paraphrase) ‘You always say you’re not a baker, and yet what does this prove?’

Dang it, she’s right! I thought to myself. I can’t really say I don’t bake anymore. Because I just baked, and told the world about it.

After these cookies . . . these cookies . . . these bars . . . this quickbread . . . this beer bread . . . these mini pumpkin muffins . . . this pie . . . I can no longer state “I don’t bake.”

Because: I bake.

So I am not not a baker anymore.

I have graduated myself to ‘novice baker.’

It’s a frightening move for me, and now I feel like I have a huge target on my back. Soon, they’ll discover you understand nothing about the science of baking, my insecurities warned me. You’ll be called out as a fraud!

Though who exactly are ‘they’? My insecurities never bothered to specify.

This is my topmost life fear, by the way: to be uncovered as a scamming shamming fraudulent human girl. Throughout my high marks in high school and college, the fear that constantly dogged me was: They’re bound to discover soon that I’m not actually smart, but just good at faking it. They’re bound to find out that I don’t actually measure up. That my ‘intelligence’ is just a sham. That I’m a phony! A fraud! A failure! The fact that I aced every class was just a fluke. Soon, the truth would be revealed!

So I hope that by calling myself a ‘novice baker’ you don’t think I’m giving myself airs. Because I in no way pretend or claim to have discovered the perfect chocolate chip cookie! And isn’t that the aim of every real baker out there? I’d better get started–I’m way behind on this mission.

Note: my husband is convinced he’s discovered the perfect chocolate chip cookie–you can tell by the look on his face that he feels he’s arrived. I, however, am firmly convinced that further scientific experimentation must take place. Methods for wiping the smug expression off his face may include but are not limited to: tickling, spanking, singing a small operetta at the top of my lungs, and eating all his cookie dough before it makes it to the oven.

What can I say. I love that guy, even if he’s dead wrong.

Progress reports must be posted soon.

Love,

The Non-non-bakerperson

P.S. Lemon Cream Bar recipe tomorrow, Lemon Crinkle Cookies later this week!

Project Ice Cream Space: mission accomplished

I’ve mentioned it before: Project Ice Cream Space has been a long, ongoing process designed to clear enough space in our freezer to fit in some ice cream.

We’ve been separated from ice cream for so long we’ve practically become ice cream virgins. It’s indecent, that’s what.

And why was our freezer so full? Well, I’ll let you read here for that can of worms. It involves a very generous grandfather who lived through some tough, hungry times in his youth and therefore expresses his love by sending us pork loins, arm roasts, turkey breasts, ducks, myriads of cheddar bratwursts, and table-size tablets of chicken breasts.

We’ve been chipping away at the bounty slowly over the months, using dinner parties as an excuse to break out massive quantities of meat. We cleared out a pot roast for a church potluck.

We cleared out a massive pork loin with a group of friends. We slow cooked the turkey breast and shredded the leftovers into this soup.

Though the duck has yet to be dealt with, the space cleared was starting to get significant. History-altering. See the gap on the right?

Yes, the one next to the frozen bag of minced carrots and celery and the frozen pie crust?

Just the right size for a container of cookie dough frozen glory.

(I placed a black arrow in the above picture in case any of you are still half asleep and are having trouble following what’s happening. Aren’t I considerate?)

A number of weeks ago, we finally sealed our success with the purchase of this tub of ice cream:

I’d forgotten . . . I’d forgotten.

Heavens to Betsy.

What does that mean?? Who is Betsy, and why is Heaven ringing her up?

I’m having brain freeze, so I can no longer ponder that.

Over the weekend, this tub of Dulce de Leche made its way from the grocery store to our freezer. How it got there, I can’t quite remember. I claim no responsibility other than that of making the evidence disappear.

A sugar coma is imminent.