Up in Flames

The dough in my hand is soft and stretchy. It miraculously stays together when I fold it in half and slip it inside the pie pan. The peaches are ripe and juicy. The smell of cinnamon fills the air.  As we slide the pan inside the preheated oven I feel like I want to cry and laugh at the same time.

The cookbook is covered with a layer of flour, the words barely visible.  But what I clearly see now is that there is more to cooking than reading or even memorizing the recipe, attending the cooking workshops and frequenting the seminars. There is a mystery in blending three simple ingredients together, an art and a science which must be practiced alongside an undaunted master cook. I know I've changed.  I may not be a Paganini but I am not a Frankenstein with a bludgeon any more.

My mother-in-law looks like a snowman. This is so unlike everything I used to think of her, namely Miss Manners meets Martha Stewart meets Betty Crocker meets Mother Goose. I had no idea how spunky, tenacious, fun, funny, creative… and yes, even crazy (for only a crazy person would even think of trying to teach me to bake) she is. Blend it all together and you get…

 Shoot!  My ears tingle from sheer shock, for I never heard my mother-in-law swear like that before.  This must be really really bad.

Shoot! Shoot! She says it again and again as she opens the oven door and thick, billowing smoke pours into the kitchen.  She yanks the incinerated pie out and throws it on the counter at the same time as the fire alarm kicks in.

I guess we’ll have to call this one “The Burnt Offering By Fire to the Lord!” she shouts over the noise and runs to open the windows.