I don't think any house should be without an oven, but that's just me. I'm not a fantastic baker (unlike my neighbor who is an unassuming but undiscovered Cake Boss), but I've loved to bake ever since I was little when my mom would let me mix the batter and lick the spoon. I miss those innocent days before people cared about salmonella and sugar content. When we moved to our new townhouse, we had to give up the oven my mom had passed down to me. I agreed, but only on the condition that we'd get a new one to fit the smaller space. A year passed and due to financial limitations, the promise was still only a promise. Then we got the money (a gift from my mom—I love you, Mom!), but couldn't buy it until we were absolutely sure we didn't need the money for something else. (You'd be surprised how often that happens when you have a child.) When we finally bought the oven, it took weeks before we could have it installed—wiring problems, worker problems, we'll do it tomorrow problems. Then it was installed but I had three projects on my plate and deadlines to meet. Then work loosened up and we didn't have any darn vanilla. When we got the vanilla, we'd run out of brown sugar. When we'd gathered all the ingredients, E just wouldn't take a nap.
It seems like, as with most of my projects, having the perfect conditions is just wishful thinking.
The more I planned for it, the more my plans seemed to fall through. So today, I'm not going to plan. I'm just going to wait for the spare moments between breakfast and breastfeeding E to take the egg and butter out to bring to room temperature, to preheat the oven, to read the manual and figure out what the electric oven symbols are, to measure out one ingredient at a time, to remember to wash the Kitchenaid, to cream the butter and the sugar, to do every other step without neurotically rereading the recipe twice (okay, just twice). And so I did. And I did these:
And they are awesome.
