Dear Readers,
Earlier today, I was sitting in a sunny spot at the Flying M Coffeehouse with my dear friends Caitlyn and Sarah. I was describing to them my failed attempt at making pumpkin cinnamon rolls, and after getting frustrated at the thought of this miserable waste of ingredients I ended my rant with, "...but the maple cream cheese frosting was pretty great." To which they both groaned in that it-sounds-so-good sort of way. "If you get tired of me talking about my baking, please feel free to tell me to shut up at any time," I said. Caitlyn replied, "If there's one thing I can listen to all day, it's you describing your baking." My heart swelled with appreciation, because it's one thing I can't seem to shut up about. So let me tell you a little more about it.
I was 13 or 14 years old when I made my first batch of cookies by myself. I was doing them for extra credit in my history class (Mr. Hale was unabashed about giving extra points for sucking up). My mom, an excellent cook and baker in her own right, was never patient with other's in her kitchen (a trait I've inherited), so it was a big deal that I was allowed to tread on such hollowed ground. I refused help of any sort, insisting that I do every step myself. I'd watched my mom do it a million times, I was sure that it would be easy to do. After following the recipe step by step, I pulled a beautiful batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. Actually, they were more than beautiful, they looked amazing. I eagerly took a bite of one, and was mortified to find that this golden, soft, perfect cookie tasted like a hot mess of chocolate and salt. I put the next batch in the oven, thinking that it was a fluke that they tasted so bad. The second batch came out just as lovely as the first, but that horrid taste of death was still found in each bite. My mom went through the recipe step by step with me to see where I messed up, and to my horror and her delight we found where I went wrong: instead of a 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda, I used a half cup. I was crestfallen, and earned no extra credit.
It was several years before I took a stab at baking again. I made the occasional batch of cookies or a birthday cake, using mostly boxed mixes. Like most domestic things, I shirked my cooking duties for other more important things, like staying out all night, spending my money on concert tickets instead of food, and considering a box of Rice-A-Roni eaten straight from the pan a satisfying and well-rounded meal. But lurking in the shadows of my subconscience was an apron clad version of myself, standing along side my mom, aunts, and grandma in one of their yellow kitchens watching pie crusts get rolled out, filled with fruit or custard and a healthy dose of love, and baked to perfection. I was born into a fine line of bakers, and my genes anxiously awaited me to put my intuitive skills to use. Thanks to my cousin Tori's sugar cookie recipe, I found my calling. All it took was a batch of Halloween themed sugar cookies that I took to work with me one day on a whim, and ended up with orders to fill for some regular customers of mine at Starbucks.
That was several years ago now, and since there hasn't been a week that's gone by that I haven't made one sweet treat or another. A few years ago, while living in the Idaho Building in downtown Boise, I decided to make brunch for a couple of our friends. After a few mimosas and realizing that I had overestimated the amount of food to make (still a problem of mine), those couple of friends started yelling at other friends who were loitering on 8th Street, and before we knew it our apartment was filled with people. All of them were kind, gracious, and extremely complimentary of my food. So to help keep my self esteem high, I started having brunches on a regular basis. The regular attendees have become accustomed to the Braegger-baker way of things, meaning that I am the only one allowed to cook in my kitchen (I don't mind visitors and conversation, but stay the hell away from my stove), and I will cook and bake and serve until my guests are nearing food comas, and then I'll sit down and partake. Guests are encouraged to bring bacon (we typically go through 5-6 lbs a brunch) and/or beverages, and for the first time this year I allowed one guest in particular bring his extraordinary macaroni and cheese, the first dish served at a brunch I hosted that I didn't make. Brunch days are by far my happiest days, when my house is filled with my closest friends and I get to feed and nourish and lavish them with attention. Oh man, those days are the days I crave.
I have been fortunate enough to turn my passion into a micro-business, taking orders from friends and strangers alike. I've sent cookies all over the country, I've been honored to make wedding cakes, and treats for everything from baby showers to corporate gifts. It's funny how it works, because my life doesn't always lend itself to having the time or energy to take orders. During those times, I won't receive any calls. The moment that I think I'm ready to start up again, without solicitation, my phone will start ringing and the orders roll in. I'm always so humbled that people want to pay me to do something that I love so much. Even more fulfilling than taking orders is to surprise my loved ones with treats. I have this terrible habit of showing up on doorsteps or in workplaces with a little packages filled with treats and love. They always think I'm doing something nice for them, but the whole truth is that it's doing something for myself. The days I struggle the most, those are the days I plan my surprise deliveries; I can't explain how or why, but knowing that I'm going to create something for someone I care about to enjoy, well that can get me through just about anything.
I am so grateful to the ladies in my life that have inspired and instructed me to find such joy in my kitchen. I am so grateful for those who find pleasure in my talent, and hire me to bake on their behalf. More than anything, I am grateful for my friends and family who are so patient with me while I shove confection after confection down their throats and never complaining about it. What would I do without your ever expanding stomachs? Rest assured that each calorie is matched with heartfelt love and affection. It may not stop diabetes or heart failure, but it's nourishing none-the-less, I promise.
Sincerely,
h.
