You’ll know I’m in love when I have flour on my pants, my “I never met a cookie I didn’t like” spatula in hand, and Shania Twain playing in the background. My most recent infatuation was gifted chocolate chip banana bread, my highschool boyfriend and his friends fought over my snickerdoodles, and I made my Grandpa an apple pie with a lattice of a fish for his birthday. I taught my brother’s friends how to make homemade pizza dough and relinquished my predisposition to wipe down every surface as I allowed them to splash tomato sauce on my cupboards, sprinkle flour on my dining room table, and spill mozzarella on the floor. I look forward to contributing to potluck dinners, organizing picnic dates, and measuring the ingredients for my own birthday cake. Baking is my love language.
My 1950s urge to share my sweet-tooth with friends, family, and lovers is not so surprising considering all the female role models from my childhood did the same. Every Sunday growing up, my mom shredded carrots by the dozen for her mouthwatering carrot bread, prepared waffles with a dash of cinnamon just the way my dad liked it, and asked me to help peel bananas for banana muffins. I associate weekend mornings with my mom in her oversized fish robe, the sound of a vacuum across the carpet, the scent of Pine-Sol, and the steam rising from a piece of fresh baked bread almost too hot to eat.
I was gifted my grandma’s “500 Treasured Country Recipes” cookbook when she passed away, inherited my mom’s standing mixer and bread maker when she moved abroad, and bonded with my grandpa during our last week together when he taught me to make meatloaf. I grew up sneaking snacks from the pantry of a close family friend, was ecstatic when she made me my own pecan pie for Thanksgiving, and fondly reminisce about that time she took me to a buffet and we started with dessert. From pineapple upside-down cake to brownie berry ice cream bars to garbage disposal cookies, every cup of flour, splash of vanilla, and pinch of salt represents my adoration for everyone around me.
This being said, baked goods can often substitute unspoken words of jealousy, rage, and disapproval. With every batch of perfectly moist cookies I’ve pulled out of the oven, there’s also been at least one other pan full of dough with burn marks, pieces of eggshells, and the aftertaste of baking soda.
In elementary school, I tried to help my mom by pulling the pizza out of the oven and instead dropped it face down on the glass door. I was in big trouble that night.
One time, my childhood friend and I were baking brownies – the Pillsbury boxed fudgy kind – when her big brother came out of his room like an angry bull and flipped her on the floor. I don’t remember why they were arguing but I do remember the mortification I felt witnessing such an intimate moment between siblings, batter dripping down my chin.
Last year, a friend insisted on baking my birthday cake, even though since I was old enough to work an oven I’ve made my own dessert. She made tres leches cake – her favorite dessert – and even when I found myself sobbing in my room on the night of my party (because what girl doesn’t cry on her birthday?) and told everyone to have cake without me, she refused to stray from tradition. I hate being sung to, despise forcing myself to lick the candles from a dessert I would have enjoyed more if I had been the one to make it, and more often than not, want birthday brownies instead of cake. But I nibbled at her creation – mascara stains faint on my cheeks – and gritted my teeth when my friends sang to me. I truly believe baking me a tres leches cake – especially because I’m lactose intolerant– was my friend’s way of monopolizing my celebration. We are not friends anymore.
Although I have some negative memories when it comes to baked goods, for the most part, the act of cooking for someone is my most common expression of affection. There’s something about standing in the kitchen humming along to early 2000s femme pop and stirring a big bowl of batter that grounds me; almost as if watching a tray of muffins rise through the glass film of an oven door materializes my infatuation.
I look forward to baking birthday cakes for my future daughter; maybe she will also want a Hello Kitty themed dessert. I want to make my own wedding cake – a classic vanilla with cream cheese frosting and edible flowers – and share the moment with my spouse as we wipe foamy frosting off each other’s faces and solidify our marriage. I will contribute to every bake sale, potluck, and dinner party I attend for the rest of my life. How else could I show my love to the world?