I love to bake. The problem is, my kids always want to do it with me. And though better, more patient mothers would undoubtedly see it as the perfect chance to spend a few moments bonding over a shared interest, I see it as a monumental mess waiting to happen. (You say "control freak," I say "preferer of neatness." Potato, potahto.) I love my children, and I love that they want to participate in an activity that brings me joy. But here's where it gets tricky: it brings me joy because I'm experienced at it. Because I know how to do it properly, clean as I go, and end up with something that I'm 99.9 percent sure will not contain bits of eggshell. What doesn't bring me joy is teaching my kids these skills, because that requires tons of trial and error and — most importantly — patience. Which is not an ingredient I've stockpiled an abundance of. (Unlike butter. I buy that sh*t in bulk.)
I know. They need to learn, and they need someone forgiving to teach them. Which is why I'll probably just have to send them to Grandma's when they're stricken with the baking bug. I can barely deal, because when my children "help" me bake, it usually goes something like this . . .
- Step 1: Get out a bowl. No, not that bowl. Nope, not that one either. Get the one stacked in the — OMG COOKWARE AVALANCHE!
- Step 2: Consult recipe. I explain for the umpteenth time what the abbreviations mean. (Maybe this will be the time they retain the information. But probably not.)
- Step 3: Retrieve necessary measuring cups and utensils. No, not that one, the one-cup measure. The one-cup measure. THE ONE WITH THE ONE ON IT! For crying out loud!
- Step 4: Measure dry ingredients. Leave copious, clumpy, sticky trails of sugar and flour from canister to bowl.
- Step 5: Measure wet ingredients. Overflow liquid measuring cup. Dribble vanilla extract all over the counter (which in itself can be sob-worthy if, like Ina Garten, you buy the "good" vanilla).
- Step 6: Crack eggs. Drop one on the floor, making sure it leaves a trail of slime down the front of the cabinet on its way. If the recipe calls for separating the yolk from the white, ruin a few before I lose all patience and take over. Pick out egg shells and pray no one crunches down on anything mysterious.
- Step 7: Mix wet and dry ingredients. Get overzealous and slop half of it over the side of the bowl. If using a stand mixer instead of hand-mixing, turn it up way too high and fling crap on everything within a three-foot radius. People and pets included.
- Step 8: Pour batter into pan. Make a mess with that, too, because why the hell not? It already looks like a dumpster in here.
- Step 9: Bake. Argue about who should put it in, impart valuable lesson about burning yourself, burn myself anyway.
- Step 10: Enjoy. Listen to the kids whine for a taste 10 minutes before dinner. Say no at least a bazillion times.
During the process, of course, more than one kid always wants to assist. Which adds a heaping dollop of "No, it's my turn!" and a heavy-handed splash of "I'M TELLING YOU KIDS RIGHT NOW I'M GOING TO JUST DO THIS ALL MYSELF!"
Baking is something I find enjoyable and relaxing. Baking with kids is . . . well, pretty much the opposite. Maybe by the time I'm somebody's grandma I'll be able to muster up enough patience to teach them without cringing through the entire session.
. . . Then again, maybe not. You want some cookies, kids? There's a bag of Oreos in the pantry. Help yourselves. Just don't "help" me.