Zen and the Art of Baking

To borrow the term of a friend of mine, I've been in a bit of a funk this week. There's no good reason for it: Emotionally, nothing has changed from last week, I had a perfectly delightful weekend, in fact, filled with sunshine, wandering, walks, wine and wonderful chats with friends. 

The only thing I can pin it down to is that I did something rather stupid. I've only recently joined the ranks of the multiple-medicines-per-day brigade thanks to a surgery that seems to have not quite gone to plan and adjusting to how that fits into your life takes a little work. It's been made markedly easier by the good folk at Douglas Pharmaceuticals and their Medico Pak, but that's not much use when you leave it at home and you are not there, as I did on Sunday. I've paid the price all week, feeling rather more miserable than I have in recent weeks, although it has helped me to understand a bit more about precisely what those particular drugs help with, so at least there is some small benefit, I guess.

Still, feeling a little (more) off-colour has made me a bit grouchy, which after the cheerful zen-ness of the past few weeks is most unwelcome. To top it off, I had some news yesterday at work and I can't yet decide if it is good or bad. There's still a few puzzle pieces that need to fall into place for me to get the full picture and to see how it affects me and my rather tenuous position.

I left work feeling fuzzied of head and wanting kittens to cuddle. The delightful Annette offered hers, but sadly the North Shore at peak hour on a bus was rather more than I could cope with at that point. A kitty-cuddle-rain-check is definitely in order, however. In lieu of kitty-cuddles, I resorted to baking to clear my head.

The response to that sentence is invariably is one of two things: A satisfied, nodding "Ah, yes", in understanding, or a look of sheer horror crossing the face of the person I am speaking to, followed quickly by he or she questioning my sanity. Note: The questioning of sanity is usually not phrased in such harsh terms as to preclude the expresser from requesting a share of the baked goods. 

I am, quite possibly, the world's messiest baker. I learnt to bake at my Grandma's knee, with her big, flowered apron folded up several times over and tied under my armpits, standing on a kitchen stool, in her big, old Remuera kitchen.  I can still picture the chopping boards that my Grandpa made for her and see the passionfruit vines out the windows if I close my eyes tight enough. 

Grandma's baking philosophy was that you should bake by feel and with love. The recipe was there, of course, but it was merely a guideline. If the mixture didn't seem right to you, add a dash more of this, a pinch more of that, if the scoop wasn't quite even, who cares, bung it in! There was no fear when you were baking with Grandma, a wonderful thing for a child like me, who routinely tiptoed through a landscape of terror at home. It didn't matter if you did something wrong, or wanted to try something different, she was wonderfully patient and understanding. 

It's probably why I have such a fondness for baking to this day. I set out a mixing bowl and spoons and a little part inside of me just relaxes and smiles. I still follow her baking philosophy, at times it rather befuddles people who know me and my otherwise logical and structured thought patterns. Baking is an area where I demand no precision, it's about feel.

Strangely enough, much of the childhood magic and wonder remains. Despite studying a fair bit of the chemistry of baking at high school and university, I often still sit in front of the oven door and watch the cakes, muffins and cookies rise with a sense of awe (and trepidation). I love watching the goopy mess transform into tasty deliciousness. 

In fact, I love the whole process, from the moment I decide to bake, to the moment I deliver the finished product to the recipient. 

It's incredibly therapeutic for me, even when, like last night, I wasn't paying attention and tipped a whole can of condensed milk in, rather than 2 tablespoons. Were it not for my Grandma and her lessons, I probably would have written the whole thing off and dived deeper into my funk. Instead, I looked at it as an experiment to play with. I chucked a few extra bits and bobs in and figured I'd see how the cookies came out. 

They're probably not the most amazing cookies I've ever made, but they worked and they're still tastier than most ones you'd buy in a supermarket (in my highly qualified, highly biased opinion, of course). And the whole time I was making them, I was smiling as I thought of my wonderful Grandma and the lessons she taught me. I miss her dreadfully, even now, 7 years after she died. She was the most amazing woman. 

I woke up this morning and the funk was gone. I know if she was still here, she would smile.