Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven

I love to bake. And I really love to bake cookies.

The summer I turned eight, my mom and a few of her friends put together a 'Finishing School' of sorts for their daughters. Two of the moms taught a cooking class on Mondays, two taught sewing on Wednesdays, and two taught manners and etiquette on Fridays. We probably did it for six weeks or so, then had a program at the end. We cooked the meal (sort of), wore our little aprons and hats that we had sewn, and used our manners. We also had a fun little fashion show modeling our mothers' own wardrobe (early 80s--sooo vogue). 

The cooking day was my favorite. We each had our own set of measuring cups and spoons, as well as recipe cards we put together. It was hard for my 2nd grade handwriting to fit a whole recipe on that little 3X5 card! But once I had my recipe copied, measuring and stirring and putting it all together was a thrill. 

I remember feeling like a whole new world was opening up--if I could read and understand one recipe, I could do them all! I also learned a love for fractions--doubling a recipe meant twice the cookies as long as I knew what 2/3 times two was. (I always like math as a kid too, so it was good fit.)

After my summer cooking experience, I asked my mom on  a regular basis if I could make cookies. Her answer was always the same--I had to finish them (and not leave it for her), and I had to clean up. 

I remember many a bar cookie that had started out as regular drop cookies, and I'm sure I didn't do near my share of the cleaning up part; but my mom was always a good sport about letting me have my turn in the kitchen.

Lincoln is delirious with the deliciousness of his cookie.

And so my love of baking continues. Now my kids can help--measure and pour ingredients, stir the batter, and especially lick the beaters. I think my mom was crazy-nice to let me do it all myself, as I am nowhere near ready to surrender the kitchen to my little 7-year-old. 

If only I could bake and not partake . . .