It has taken me a little while to come to terms with this but they say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem so, here goes: I hate baking with my Small. Whoever said that a ‘messy kitchen is a happy kitchen’ was clearly tripping off her tiny mind and let me tell you, she’s no goddamn friend of mine.
I have tried to do that homely activity that seems designed to slot perfectly into a lazy Sunday afternoon but honestly, in my world, too many cooks spoil my vibe. I imagine romantic, Insta-filtered images of us laughing as we measure and mix only to sit down after and indulge in still-warm cookies while we braid each other’s hair and gab about Peppa Pig and Project Runway.
In reality I’m reaching for the cooking wine and knives (Note: you don’t need cooking wine or knives to bake) before I’ve even got her apron on and wondering what fresh hell the next half an hour will bring – less ‘chief cook and bottle washer’ and more ‘chief cook and bottle emptier’. Within 0.7 seconds there is flour everywhere, the Small is licking a raw egg shell while rubbing butter in her hair and chocolate chips up her nose and I’m considering a Sylvia Plath-style exit from the whole sorry scenario.
Both times I’ve attempted this baking thing, I’ve had to deposit The Small fully clothed in the shower after I have had to strip naked in the kitchen and put all my clothes (including undies) in the washing machine. On one occasion the Amazon delivery guy got way more than he was expecting. He recovered his senses enough to ask me to, ‘Just sign here,’ but it was about four months before I ordered anything from Amazon again and only then after my neighbour assured me the cute guy wasn’t delivering anymore.
So, you can see why I don’t bake with my Small anymore.