I wasn’t lured into the baking game by cake lust; it was more of a muffin bait-and-switch.
17 years ago, I got a call from my friend Kim, a caterer. “I really need you to bake 200 muffins for an event that’s coming up.” I reminded her that I wasn’t a baker and that, in any case, I’d never made muffins for a small army before. “You can do it,” she exhorted, “you went to ART SCHOOL!”
She had a point, I suppose. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs—all are malleable mediums, awaiting only the bidding of the maker’s hand. Armed with my arts education, a sense of nervous bravado and, most important, a deadline, I managed to whip those muffins out.
I’ve been baking like a person possessed ever since.
Through two states, countless catering gigs, several restaurants, and the birth of four babies, I’ve continued to bake and bake and bake.
I’ve had other pursuits of course—goat farming, playing violin, crazy fitness routines—but all roads seem to lead back to baking. And cake.
So satisfying, so seductive, so flat out happy-making.