Today I made muffins.
I wore my little apron, double wrapping the strings around the front (and getting a little boost from the need to still double wrap those strings despite my chronic inability to exercise these days).
I calmly sourced ingredients from my well-stocked pantry (wondering to myself when exactly it became so well-stocked).
I tossed everything in my very favourite baby blue earthenware bowl (purchased not based on size, material or necessity – but because I saw one on Oprah).
I popped the tray in the oven, and 20 minutes later, I very casually put everything away and strolled out of the kitchen.
Which is about when my heart skipped a beat. I baked muffins. I. Baked. Muffins. And not only did I bake them – but they actually look just like they should.
I baked muffins without any tears (from me or my muffin consumers). I baked muffins without becoming completely hysterical. I baked muffins without seeing flames inside the oven, setting off the smoke detector, or forgetting to add something critical (like flour, eggs, sugar or on one most unfortunate occasion, all three).
This – in itself – felt nothing short of miraculous. But if you thought that was a change of pace for little old kitchen-deficient-me, get this: On Wednesday, I food processed.
You heard me, boys. I. Food. Processed. It’s been three years since my aunt gave me a very fancy dancy food processor with a note that said “You won’t need this now, but in 20 years you’ll be glad you have it.”
It’s been two and a half years since I decided to prove her wrong and, determined to be glad right away, embarked on what has now become known as the Avocado Incident.
It’s been about three minutes shy of two and a half years since I put the food processor back in the box, and tried to pick up the shattered pieces of my avocado-covered life.
Then, on Wednesday, armed with my soon-t0-be-vintage copy of Katie Lee Joel (yes, of that Joel family) cookbook, I dusted off ye old chopper and produced a veggie dip like nothing you’ve seen before. I did this without any major injuries, unnecessary bleeding, or post-chopping ceiling scraping.
And now we have muffins too.
I don’t have a disaster story to tell. I don’t have any harrowing tales to share. I don’t even have a quirky or witty comment. I have nothing. Except a large vat of dip (I always triple recipes, it’s the only culinary skill my mother managed to pass on), a dozen perfectly shaped muffins, and a nagging question in the pit of my stomach and on the tips of my usually-keyboard-happy-fingers: If I can cook, what exactly am I going to write about from now on?
Stay tuned… when I figure it out, so will you.
