As a kid, I remember that the smell of homemade cookies coming out of the oven always made me – well, it kinda made me want to run in and eat all the cookies – but it also made me proud.
My mom taught me how to cook and bake things from scratch at a young age. I’d always pull out all the bowls and ingredients, and then we’d pick out a recipe (usually oatmeal raisin cookies if I had my way,) and go through the steps together. Sometimes the cookies would even take the shape of teddy bears or hearts – if the teddy bears were aliens and the hearts were more anatomically correct, that is.
So even though I wasn’t necessarily an excellent artist with my baking, it always made me feel sooo accomplished. Like doing-the-monkey-bars-one-handed accomplished. It was an excellent thing to know that I’d instigated the magic that went on in that oven.Read More