When I was a child, my mother was always baking something fabulous.
Cupcakes, whoopie pies, cakes, brownies, and cookies. I can’t remember a time when we didn’t have a baked good in the house.
I remember clinging to her side as she incorporated her ingredients, waiting so impatiently for her to finish with the mixer because I knew that when she was done, she would hand me the beaters, the mixing bowl, and the spatula. I savored every last drop of the batter. I think I may have enjoyed that part more than the finished product.
But now, when I bake with Katie, I can’t bring myself to let her have that same joy.
The thought of her getting sick from the raw eggs overpowers my desire for her to know the same joy I knew, there in the kitchen with my own mother. I almost wish that, like my mother then, I didn’t know about the dangers of eating raw eggs.
So, when we bake, Katie’s joy is different. Her smiles come from lining up the cupcake liners, peeking in the oven as the cupcakes bake, and carefully decorating them once they’ve cooled.
There in my own kitchen, as I witness Katie’s happiness, I miss my mother so very much. Those days in her kitchen are some of my happiest memories of us together.
Thank you, Mom. Thank you for always saving the beaters, bowl, and spatula for me. I love you.