TIME TO HANG UP THE APRON?

My first experience with baking was a catastrophe. Amazingly, my dad who had become a baker after we moved to Seattle, didn’t even laugh, but offered me some sage advice which no longer seems to apply.


I must have been about 10 or 12 years old. We had just purchased a brand new gas stove with a timer and everything. I decided I would bake bread and rolls for dinner and went to the store and purchased five pounds of flour. I very carefully followed all the directions on the flour bag. I mixed, kneaded, punched down, raised and finally had one loaf and a pan of rolls. They were gorgeous yeasty- smelling creations.
Into the oven they went and I carefully set the timer for the exact time in the recipe. When the timer dinged, I went and removed my beautifully browned (although perhaps a bit darker than I expected) results from the oven and sat them to cool. I was so proud of my contribution to our dinner.


Imagine my amazement when we tried to cut into the rolls at dinner. They were more like briquettes than rolls. After dinner I even took one outside and threw it as hard as I could against the concrete walk and it just bounced off. There were a few bites of the loaf of bread that were edible…way down inside once you managed to saw through the thick crust.

I was crushed and might have given up ever baking anything again if my dad hadn’t counseled me and offered advice. He pointed out how the rolls were all smaller and would take less time to bake than a loaf of bread. He also pointed out how I should go back and check to see how whatever is in the oven is doing periodically no matter what the timer may say. He encouraged me to try again, to try making cookies, cakes and pies.  His final advice was, “practice makes perfect.” I took it to heart and it served me well.

The first Christmas John and I were married, I made a wide variety of baked goods and candy. Some of them were successful and some were not or were so much trouble I decided I’d never make that particular recipe again. This became an annual habit…try new recipes, toss those that didn’t work but make the ones that had been successful in years past.

I realized early I’d never win an award for decorated cut out cookies. I didn’t have the patience or skill or whatever to create those beautiful and edible works of art. There was a young woman who attended the same group counseling sessions I did. One Christmas she made each of us a cookie. These weren’t just cookies, these were stunningly beautiful creations. I didn’t eat mine, but took it home and used it as a tree ornament for a number of years until it finally crumbled apart. If I’d been smarter, I’d have encased it in some form of shellac and still have it in my ornament box.

Over the decades I’ve made candy, I’ve tried a number of recipes but finally came to the conclusion that candy thermometer or no, candy making is not my forte. I love caramels, but the time and effort simply aren’t worth the effort. Fondant is impossible. You can cook and stir and stir and cook and still end up with a shiny liquid mess…trust me…depending on the humidity. Fudge, love that too, but not so much when it’s more granular than smooth. My mother made the best fudge using Hershey’s cocoa. She’d stir and stir and drop a spoonful in cold water to determine if it was done (no candy thermometer for her) and it was dark and smooth and absolutely yummy. I never got the hang of that recipe and even managed to screw up the Fantasy Fudge that supposedly anyone can make.

During the hippie stage of our marriage, we not only had a big garden, but I baked all the bread we ate which meant baking bread several times a week. French bread was my best and family favorite. In addition to the garden, we also had an apple tree that provided the best apples I’ve ever had. (It hasn’t produced for years now and I’m wondering if it ever will again.) In any case, there were summers where I put up to eight unbaked apple pies in the freezer to be taken out and baked during winter.

I also identified a variety of cookie, cake and bread (like zucchini or banana) recipes which rewarded me (and those that ate them) with tasty results time after time. There were years I baked for weeks before Christmas because I would make up “care packages” for the older women who comprised the bulk of my husband’s cliental. These were women who used to do what I did but had reached the point in their lives where an entire loaf of bread or dozens of cookies were simply too much. A few of these, some of those and bread sliced for the freezer with a small jar or two of jam were the perfect and greatly appreciated gift.

Now, however, I’ve reached a point in my life where I’m wondering if my excuse for these women not creating in the kitchen really had anything to do with the abundance produced but rather the failures that began to crop up. I don’t know if that happened to them, but it’s happening to me

This December I made lemon zucchini, cranberry orange, and pumpkin bread. The only bread that was actually edible or worthy of sharing was the cranberry orange. The lemon zucchini stayed in the oven for more than an hour and never did get done. That’s when I realized I might have an oven temperature problem. Yep, for some reason, my oven doesn’t register what it needs to register between 300 and 400 degrees without some adjustment. I thought I’d solved the problem with the cranberry orange bread, but the pumpkin bread (made with pumpkin harvested from our big Halloween pumpkin) also didn’t cook completely.

As for cookies, the Snowball and Colossal cookies turned out perfect. I made two pans of Magic Cookie Bars before I realized the oven temperature was off, so only one of those turned out well except for the fact I had to use chopped up block chocolate because John had been into the chocolate chips and I didn’t have enough…who’s going to the grocery store after 9:00 pm…not moi.

The dill pickles I make every August turned out well and were suitable for gifts. The four different batches of jam turned out great with the exception of the blackberry and that only because I became distracted and didn’t turn the jars back over so rather than a little airspace at the top of the jar it’s at the bottom.

My dad told me all those years ago that, “practice makes perfect,” but I’m beginning to wonder if there comes a time when you’ve practiced so much that perfection is no longer attainable. Or, perhaps you reach a stage in life where you just stop doing some of the things you’ve always done. Perhaps, like my apple tree, it’s time for me to stop producing and hang up my apron.