Two batches of muffins, an apple pie, four dozen chocolate chip cookies. All from scratch. Since Friday. Still to go, another apple pie, oatmeal cookies, peanut butter cookies, and one more batch of muffins. And, I've got my eye on Swistle's Chocolate Mint Brownies for this weekend. Or maybe her Salty Brownies. Okay, if I'm being honest, I'll probably make both.
In the moments where I haven't been tending to a screaming, sick, teething toddler I've been baking my ass off. No, I've been baking my ass into the next time zone is more like it.
I'm seriously baking like it's Thanksgiving. If my house doesn't smell like baked goods, I start to panic. It's like I'm turning into Donna Freaking Reed over here.
In truth, I've always found baking cathartic. Good baking is a science. Precise measurements are key, each and every ingredient is important. Unlike cooking, which is more of an art, adding garlic here, using less salt, etc. That just doesn't work for baking. You can't just leave out the baking powder or vanilla. It would ruin your cake.
And? We've had complete refrigerator/freezer/pantry reorganization this weekend. It was so awesome, better than vacation. Well, not really but still awesome.
So, with Oscar, I didn't start nesting until four days before he arrived. I scrubbed my fridge within in an inch of it's life and baked five freezer meals in one day. And I'm not talking tuna casseroles here. I made freaking stuffed shells with turkey and artichoke hearts. I was a woman possessed. Nelson was afraid. He kept saying, "What are you doing? Will you stop? Why are you doing this now?" I believe my exact response was, "I CANNOT have a baby if our fridge is filthy."
Also, I've made the decision that Oscar will be moving into the fuchsia nightmare this weekend. I don't care if it's fuchsia. We can paint it later. He'll never even know the difference. When I declared this move to Nelson, he got a look of fear in his eyes.
And if he thinks the closets aren't next, he's only fooling himself. He knows I cannot be stopped.
Oh, and funny slightly-related-but-not-entirely story! When Nelson came home yesterday afternoon, he was full of admiration for my apple pie. It was pretty gorgeous, perfectly golden crust, uncracked vents, the edges meticulously crimped, sprinkled with just the right amount of Cinnamon and sugar. It could have been in a magazine. Martha would have been proud.
He said, "You should take a photo of this an put it online. I bet there is a website called rate-my-pie dot com."
I said, "Yeah, I bet there IS a website called rate-my-pie dot com. And I bet the kinds of pies they are rating are not of the fruit filled variety."
Nelson, "Geez, you're probably right."
From the man who exclaimed about Hooters, "But don't those women realize men are just coming in there to look at their breasts!"
Oh, how I love this guy.