I don't like to bake.
I particularly don't like to bake in this subpar kitchen.
In a cruel twist of fate, today I find myself baking. I'm not one of those girls that will say, "Yeah, sure, I'll bring some cookies to your event." Actually, I'm NEVER one of those girls. EVER. If my arm is twisted and I'm getting a heavy load of guilt, I will commit, then either get someone else to bake, or buy something.
In case you haven't heard, I live in Chicago, and I don't have a car. If I wanted to buy something, I would have to walk to the store. It's 19 degrees. But, of course, it feels like 5. So, here I am, staring at my one option: A box of cake mix. I will turn that cake into cookies, but I'm not happy about it. Also, I'm not sure what recipe to use. I don't have any books that detail baking secrets. (I'm looking for something like, Secret #1: How to bake without actually having to bake.) And although I have mad google-ing skills, I'm not sure which recipe is most like the one I've seen in the book at my parents' house. So, I called my mother.
"Mom, I have to bake." grumble grumble grumble, injustice injustice injustice. "Are you at home? Can you give me that cake mix cookie recipe?"
"No, I'm not at home, but I could try and remember it for you." She gives me the basics, and then can't quite remember a portion, and I ask, "Where are you?"
"I'm at Marie's funeral."
"Oh jeez. And I'm complaining about baking."
"Yes, and I don't know what I've told you, but my mom fell and she has a broken pelvis." She goes on about all the drama surrounding that, and how for some reason, Grandma came home from the hospital without really being treated, and because of her dementia, kept forgetting that she has a broken pelvis, and kept trying to stand and walk, and it's been terrible and a mess, and the whole family is stressed out. I suggested putting up a sign for Grandma that says, "You have a broken pelvis. Don't get up." Mom laughed, but told me they were finally able to admit Grandma into the hospital this morning, so my sign was not needed.
I tried to complain a little bit more about having to bake, but Mom just laughed at me. She said, "I'm dealing with life and death over here, I think you can manage your baking just fine."
In a last ditch effort to get her to understand the severity of my position I exclaimed, "But Mom, I have to bake!"