I am a baker. This is not a euphemism for something dirty, I actually just love to bake. My Mother taught me from the time I was a little girl and I grew up helping her whip up cookies, pies, cakes, candy and brownies from scratch. Mom didn’t use mixes, she was old-fashioned and made her desserts with love and time. People often see me as a bit harder and less domestic than one might expect a baker to be. Sure I hate to clean, I’m not a Mom, and I still don’t really know how to use my $350 vacuum. So what does it say about me, that this wild, loud-mouthed, balls to the wall woman, likes to put on some country and bake all day? For that matter, does it say anything at all, except that my slight belly and jiggly thighs are hard-earned and homemade?
We seem so comfortable in our labels of people. Grandmas read to their grandkids, and knit. Single men are only interested in one thing, and people who bake are sweet, turtleneck wearing Mom types. This is such a joke. Hell, my Grandmother was blowing Gramps well into their 70’s and that woman still dresses up and scopes the eligible seniors at Bible study and she’s 88. If she’s reading to the great grandkids, I’m guessing it’s more R rated than G rated. So why should it be such a surprise that I prefer spending my time baking than almost anything else next to reading. Sure, my girls haven’t seen a turtleneck since before puberty and I’ve been considering serving the husband in a see-through apron I found, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a kick ass pastry chef!
As a society we tend to prefer the safety net of categorizing people. Maybe we don’t like surprises or maybe we are all just so brainwashed from stereotypical TV and movie characters that we forget we actually have a choice to be real and not some cookie-cutter version of the truth – pun totally intended. Just because I swear like a truck driver, blanche at the idea of having children, and am addicted to internet porn does not mean I can’t whip up a mean cheesecake. I’m never going to be June Cleaver from “Leave it to Beaver,” but if the husband plays his cards right and compliments my cookies he might be staring in his own “Beaver” spin-off. Wait, did I take that last one too far? Oh well, see my blog from pretty much every day.
When Jeff and I lived in Leavenworth, KS for 10 fun-filled months of suicidal thoughts because we were living in LEAVENWORTH, KS I used to bake a lot. Jeff was taking an officer program all Majors are forced to endure and since I had a lot of time on my hands seeing as I was newly unemployed and living in Godforsaken Kansas, I baked several times a week. Very often I would send the fat and calories of my labors with Jeff to share, but then I began to worry. I fretted that these people who had never seen me would picture me as some frumpy, sweatpants encased woman with no interests outside of the butter and eggs. I know how people think and I know I didn’t want them to think it of me.
I bake, so what? I’ve also been learning to knit and one day I might even learn to garden. Does this change who I am? Perhaps in a way or maybe it just supports what I’ve been saying all along, that we each are a dozen different people rolled into one. I am ”every woman”. I am “32 flavors” and then some. I am an “independent woman.” Lucky for my husband, co-workers, and neighbor’s sweet tooth’s I am also Betty Effin’ Crocker. So the next time you feel like judging my cupcakes based on my cookies, you might just find yourself pleasantly surprised and possibly punched in the mouth. What can I say, I’m a feisty Betty.
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