I love to bake.
It doesn’t make sense in light of who I am. Baking is so procedural. You have to follow the instructions if you want things to turn out well.
It seems like cooking would be my thing. It’s so intuitive. Putting together a sauce? Making soup? A little this, a little that, let the flavors take over. I’m a creative gal. I like to have a general idea of where I’m going, but I love to wing it. I love to let the process unfold and see where it takes me. My best stories and my best class lessons have started with an idea that I’ve wound up and let fly.
My type-A, research and data-driven, measure-the-two-cups-of-water- when-making-ramen-noodles husband is a fabulous cook. Recipe or no, he can take whatever’s in the kitchen and make something amazing with it.
Turns out I’m better off sticking with stories and lesson plans.
How is it possible that we’re drawn to arts that are so opposite our personalities? It seems like baking puts me outside my comfort zone. But that’s the weird thing. It IS my comfort zone.
It’s the thought that goes into preparations. It’s the zen that goes along with the work I’m doing. (I swear, someone needs to do a brain research on bakers. I seriously believe that kneading or working dough activates pleasure sensors in the brain.) It’s the idea by that the time I’m done, I’ll have something that will make people smile. Some of the recipes aren’t award-winning, but I’m grateful for the undemanding people in my life.
How often do we get that?
How often do I sit down to write a story and develop a finished product in 45-60 minutes?
How often do my carefully planned, thoughtfully executed lessons go dead in the water?
How often do we wish that life would just turn out OK simply because we followed the recipe?