Sometimes, little things make you want to go crazy and do something you've never done before. The little things could be anything. A song you hear, something a person says, a change in the weather.
The weather here has gotten chilly, which is wonderful, unless, like me, you don't have any winter clothes with you. A grand total of four sweaters and two quarter-sleeved shirts leaves me literally out in the cold. But I took a walk tonight to wake up and clear my head and the brisk weather got me thinking.
I realized that I want to bake. Maybe it's the idea of warm bread/cookies/scones/what-have-you coming out of the oven while the windows frost over from the outside; maybe it's the idea of the upcoming holiday season which gives me the insane urge to make ridiculous amounts of delicious food for which everyone's stomach will thank me while their waistlines curse me. More than that, though, I think it's my need to do something nice for someone who is constantly doing nice things for me. How do you repay someone for being themselves? Well, obviously you bake them a tray of scones, a basket of muffins, a loaf of fresh bread.
Food gifts are older than time itself. The first cave man to shoot a prehistoric cervidae (deer) brought it home to the first cave woman, boasting over his fine catch and offering it to her, an obvious token of his undying, Neanderthal love. Overjoyed at the prospect of skinning and cooking the bloody carcass, Mrs. Caveman took the massive thing and turned it into the first venison stew. This was before seasonings were invented, but it was still pretty damned good, and this set the standard: women give better food gifts than men. Of course, Mr. Caveman meant well, but from then on, he decided that he was better suited to giving gifts like brightly colored leaves or particularly shiny stones that he found while out hunting. Mrs. Caveman quickly amassed a large collection of such thoughtful but useless trinkets and her husband quickly amassed a larger mass.
Not all cavewomen gave better food gifts than their men, however. Not everyone had Mrs. Caveman's natural talent for turning dead flesh into something edible. Fire was relatively new and the convection oven was not even a passing innovative thought behind the large foreheads of those early people, so making palatable meals was challenging. Hopeful cavemen often received back pieces of raw meat that had merely been cut with a dull stone and arranged on a flat leaf. This was before garnishing, but they did their best to make it look appealing. There was no comparison, however, between their lackluster attempts and the culinary marvels of Mrs. Caveman and those who managed to replicate her delicate searing of deer flesh. The other cavemen quickly figured this out and chose mates accordingly.
With this going on, the poor creatures who couldn't cook, being naturally selected against, became endangered and very nearly extinct. Unfortunately, there has been a rise in the kitchen-impaired gene recently, made possible by the invention of microwave dinners and women's rights.
After a while, the human race discovered how to make bread, probably the best discovery ever made. Once this happened, it was all over. Women everywhere had the secret to making heads turn, jaws drop and stomachs rumble. Is there anything that smells better than freshly baked bread? Exactly. From there, it was a simple couple of steps to turn that bread into various and sundry pastries, which we have been baking ever since.
Therefore I think it is something genetic inside of me that calls me to knead dough, to watch bread rise, to say thank you in this manner. Of course, it's inadequate. Everything's inadequate but some traditions are too perfect to be altered.
Apart from the weather, I've also been listening to a lot of good music lately, and spending time with good, honest, down to Earth people. I don't just want to bake. That's a temporary fix for my need to DO something. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to do something that will make a difference. Maybe it'll only make a difference to a few people, but that's all that really matters, right?
My dad touched the lives of so many people, just doing what he loved: teaching and being a father. I don't think he knew how much he meant to the people in his life. That's all I want. I want to mean something to the people who mean something to me. I want to be at least half the person my father was. Genetically, that's already true, so I guess I'm on the right path. I look in the mirror and I have inspiration to be someone worth knowing.
For starters, I'm collecting recipes and plotting when to unleash their deliciousness on the people who most deserve them.Be prepared.
:D
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