Baking is my thing.
There's something about tying on an apron, working in a kitchen littered with cookbooks and printed recipes, combing through the pages with hands dusted in flour.
It makes me feel real. It makes me feel creative. It makes me feel like I have a purpose on this planet.
Even if that purpose is to roll out the best damn pie crust this side of the wavy Mason-Dixon line.
My new apartment has already given rise to a series of whimsical cooking efforts. There was the spontaneous night I decided to break the seal on some precious Indian spices I'd been hoarding since one of my last trips to London.
There was the night when I invited 5chw4r7z and Ms. 5chw4r7z over for "pasta night" with homemade red sauce - and there was nary a noodle in sight. I am still really jazzed I whipped that zucchini and yellow squash into submission, turning those summer veggies into beautiful, thinly shaved ribbons in place of pasta.
I've served up some variation of egg almost every morning before work, and am constantly dreaming up ways to take advantage of the amazing offerings at Findlay Market.
But I've failed to bake even the simplest of quiches. The easiest of muffins.
I haven't even cracked open a box of Duncan Hines cake mix.
A loyal reader of the New York Times (especially the travel, dining & wine and fashion & style sections), I practically did a jig in my little office cube after discovering a recipe for cake sale (say it with me: kek sa-lay).
A savory baking endeavor that can possibly take advantage of the summer's offerings?
My brain began weighing the pluses and minuses of turning on the oven in the dead of summer. Air conditioning on? Check. Iced tea chilling? Check. Baking in one's skivvies? Check.
The train of thought charged on, racing through possible recipe alterations, grocery lists and schedule logistics of baking such a treat.
Apparently, my schedule allows me to tackle such a feat on Friday morning at 7 a.m.
Honestly, the product of my effort isn't the whole point of this little escapade. Given a roaring appetite and a famished evening, I'd likely be just as content with a slice of wheat bread and some preserves.
The intention is to make something with love. To give up a little bit of my time and do something thoughtful for someone else.
And that's likely the true meaning behind breaking bread.
Kate's Random Musings by Kate the Great is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.