Let me tell you something. I grew up as one of 37 kids. No lie. Well, it is a lie but now when I say 11 - you'll believe me. 11 is much more believable than 37. Anyway. I was #9 in the brood. And much loved and much favored. I know it's so because I have the most baby pictures out of anyone in the whole dang family. It's truth and I must speak it. SO - I was perusing the pile of old photos and came upon this one:

I can see where I get the messy, scratch that, DISORGANIZED room from. But that's not what I'm going to focus on today. No. I'm not going to focus on what I currently have in my bedroom, like 37 boxes of yarn waiting to be used on my "Sweater Machine" that I bought 37 years ago. (Actually, I bought it about 7 years ago and still haven't taken it out of the box.) Nor am I going to focus on the 37 boxes of miscellaneous crafts, papers, files that I have either. (I like saying 37 today. It's fulfilling.)

I am going to talk about my auspicious beginnings of becoming a baker. That's ultimately what I am. I love to bake. I like to cook but baking is my folly. Jolly. Folly Jolly. (I just tried saying that 7 times fast and now my jaw is almost disjointed. Ah, what we do for fun.) Apparently, I started out with licking beaters. I don't do that anymore. My kids have taken over that job for me. I felt it important to pass on that baton... er, that beater on to them so they can discover the joys of baking. As it was, my mom was awesome in teaching me how to bake. I remember baking a cake with 8 eggs in it. I remember making penuche and having to stand on a chair so I could reach the stove so I could stir the hot, boiling mixture. I just really loved having a mom that trusted me to make delicious goodies for the family. Nothing more gratifying than seeing my loved ones enjoying something that I made. Having the confidence and the good genes, I felt like a hero in the kitchen. I loved how my mom would tell me about her gaga (grandma, not to be confused with my term, "guh-guhs" which means the grodies.") who was a baker and ran a bakery out of her home. It would always give me a secret thrill that I was somehow channeling her gaga's baking hands until that one fateful day...

"C is for cookie. That's good enough for me! Hey!" My sis, Kays and I would say that to each other all the time. Ya, good times! YAY FOR COOKIES! Anyway. Speaking of Cookie Monster... I had a shirt with his recipe on it. No lie. See?

Aren't I just the cutest thing? Yes. It's truth. Back to my shirt. I know it's reversed here... don't know how that happened but anyway - it had Cookie Monster's cookie recipe on it. I just said that, didn't I? Sorry. I was 7 1/2 years old. I had a best friend. For security purposes, I'll shall keep her identity concealed. I shall call her... Theresa. Wait, that's her real name. Well, I won't put her last name because she wouldn't appreciate it. And uh, I can't remember what her new married name is anyway. Sorry Theresa! Back to the story. She & I spent every other weekend at each other's house. Sleep-overs were our thing. I loved going to her house because I knew we would have grilled cheese sandwiches & chicken noodle soup. And more likely than not, we'd have chocolate-chip, coconut pancakes. And... I don't know why she wanted to sleep at my house... nothing exciting there. Hm. I'll have to ask her. Anyway, she came over one weekend and we decided that we would try out Cookie's recipe. I mean, it looked real enough. After spending the morning exploring in the forest behind my house and throwing rocks in the blood-sucker pond, we came back to my house and began to bake. We carefully laid out my shirt on the kitchen table and proceeded to put all the ingredients together. Now, I must ask you to look at the picture. The one with the Cookie Monster recipe on it. I'm so cute! That's not why I'm asking you to look at it, but - hey, I'm soooo cute! Look at it and see the long curls? Yes. Those lovely locks? So sweet. :) Hmm. Yes. Theresa and I were standing by the counter and I was holding the mixer (see where this is going?) and she was putting in more flour and I (uh oh... here it comes!) lifted up the mixer just a bit so she could pour it in and BAMGRWRRRRRPPPP!!!! HELP!!!! The mixer tangled up in my lovely locks all the way up to my scalp! We both stood there in shock and I yanked the cord out. What did Theresa do? She looked at me and then took a deep breath and doubled over and LAUGHED! HYSTERICALLY! What did I do? I just stood there. Dumbfoundedly! Holding the mixer up to my head not knowing what to do! She had tears streaming down her face and I just stood there. After what seemed a lifetime, she calmed down enough (but not completely because she kept giggling) to help me detangle my hair from the beaters. I am grateful we did not have to cut my hair and that I have a great story... but man! My head was sore!

The moral of the story? The cookies turned out fine (yes, we washed the beaters.) I learned my lesson about always having my hair pulled back during baking. And? Not to let a silly thing like getting your hair caught in the beaters keep you from doing something you love. Even if your best friend is laughing at you hysterically.