Kitchen Therapy

Some people go shopping. Others eat ridiculous amounts of chocolate chased by equally absurd servings of wine. What do I do when I am stressed out or depressed? I bake. Yes, I bake. This morning it was a loaf of brioche. Okay, so this is sort of cheating. I technically started to "bake" this long before the frustration and the stress settled in. But does it really count until you bathe the proofed dough in egg and place it in the oven? I say no. So, stress produced a brioche. A beautiful one at that. Tasty. And perhaps something to rival Keith's challah. Perhaps now my family will stop singing the praises of the one loaf of his they tasted almost a full year ago. Jealous much? No, not at all. It was good bread. Let's move on, shall we?

What else comes after a day (or two) of swimming in self-pity until one's fingers become wrinkled with it? A chocolate cake. Okay, this is also cheating. The batter was already done and baked and the finished cake frosted (there is a funny story in there that tickles me and will have to be written for your pleasure at some point). But I had some batter remaining. I never "saved" batter before but I thought, what the heck, right? Okay, maybe Keith was the one who thought what the heck and told me to save it. But those are minor details that are not at all important to the trajectory of this post. Much like his challah or how good it is. Or how much my parents still talk about it. Let's move on, shall we?

So in went the cake batter tonight into my greased and floured (really, Baker's Joy, $10.99 for a can of convenience?) 6-inch cake pan and out came a beautiful devil's food if-not-exactly-spiced cake (2 teaspoons of chili powder is clearly not enough). On it went some rum frosting. One can never go wrong with chocolate, chili powder, and rum. And now it sits on my counter. To be enjoyed tomorrow.

And with that enters the reason for kitchen therapy. My life should come with the tagline: "To be enjoyed tomorrow." Somewhere in this cosmic universe a grand play is unfolding in which me--the wily, fiery, and fiercely independent dark-haired beauty--fumbles after every turn all while the great lessons of patience and perspective play over and over and over and over and over again. Patience and perspective. The former a lesson I knew I had to learn but never really took the time to. The latter a new lesson to be learned. Perhaps the more bitter of the two. Nay, patience leaves a copper taste on my tongue while perspective allows me to appreciate the notes.

The bottom line: pastry school holds tight until the funds of my focus piggy bank gain weight. A scholarship I hoped for failed to come through. An easy out not so easy and not so much of an out anymore.

Holding tight with a hint of copper on my tongue.