Some Context

When I was in college I had so many words, so many ideas constantly demanding my attention that I filled journal upon journal besides writing all the papers and projects required of an English major. And then I went to graduate school and after that I got a job as an editor for an online publication and though the ideas still come, I lose them because at the end of the day, my words are all used up. The difference, I'm sure, involves all the other commitments on my time that come with being an adult -- and I know I’m not alone: a good friend of mine who completed a master's program in poetry two years ago hasn't written a single line since completing her thesis. We both agree that all we need is a little discipline to help us follow through on our good intentions.

And while I'd describe my life as fairly orderly, and even disciplined in some regards, that may be the biggest difference between my mom and me, at least when it comes to the kitchen. She's neat and orderly, washing dishes and utensils as she goes to prevent a big messy backlog at the end. I just stack them in the sink -- or by the sink. She follows a recipe to the letter, reading back through at the end to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. (The one time, at least to my knowledge, that she didn't do this, she forgot the sugar in the pumpkin pies she made for her ladies' Bible study and at the last minute had to remake all eight of them using, horrors, frozen pie crust -- but that's another story for another day). I improvise and substitute and it drives her nuts, especially as she is an alpha cook. (I have a lot to say about this, but it will have to wait for another day, too.)

When I was in high school, we would get into epic fights in the kitchen, usually while I was baking for the county 4-H Achievement Days. She'd hover with a ruler (I'm not even exaggerating for the sake of a good story, as other members of my family are wont to do), measuring how much batter was in each muffin tin, how big I was shaping the buns, if the loaves met the size specified in the recipe, and I would just lose it.

You must understand, though, that my mom is one of the best cooks I know and that my success at achievement was a direct reflection on her reputation. Achievement days are a three-day event: All the entries -- from livestock to visual arts to the various categories of baked goods -- are judged on the first two days. On the third day, the exhibit halls are opened to the public (mostly moms and grandmas come) and the whole thing culminates with a barbeque, usually pork or beef, though there was the unfortunate sheep incident (where everyone complained) that my dad still talks about (because he was on the fair board and let some of the mothers who wanted a healthier alternative line up the sheep and the man who barbequed/ruined it).

My brother, who is five years older than I am, made waffle cookies -- similar to these; I'll post the real recipe when I can find it -- his first year in 4-H (when he was 8) and he earned a white ribbon (which means disqualification!), a disgrace he has yet to live down. It was a technicality -- something about a frosted cookie being entered in a category for unfrosted cookies -- but all these years later, my mom has not forgotten. All that to say, my mom really had more at stake than I did in this thing and it was shameful of me to provoke her by refusing to level that tablespoon of cinnamon with a knife. (If you're reading mom, know that I'm sorry.)

Now that I'm older and, I'd like to think wiser, sharing a kitchen with my mom is much easier, as long as I remember my place. And, for her part, she trusts me more. But mostly I think it's because we no longer have to deal with achievement-day baking and the approval of the old home economics teachers the county extension agent would round up to judge it.