I’m baking for the bake sale. Declan’s school has a table at the Scituate Art Festival. This is my first opportunity to raise money for the elementary school. I’m not good at fundraising but on days where I pay attention, I can cook. On days I don’t, I burn outlines of sandwiches on frying pans.
I planned ahead. Yesterday, I assembled my local butter, vegan sugar, and organic King Arthur all-purpose flour. I begin to bake. Declan helped. It’s stressful policing a six-year old baker who really only wants to double-dip his finger into the sugar.
“Go wash your hands again.” I told him. Don’t worry, he hasn’t slimed your cookie. I had to wash several spoons, though.
Baking cookies has taken me a total of two days. I was wise to have started yesterday. I figured I’d do the dough one day and the baking the next. What I didn’t know is that dough, it seems, evaporates in the refrigerator. Or maybe en route from the bowl to the Tupperware container. One particular handful didn’t evaporate, though. It was stolen. I caught the boy dough-handed.
“I used the spoon,” he said, hiding the half-tray of cookie sized ball. I took it. I threw it out. There’s a half-tray no one gets to sell. Then I burned a couple of trays when someone came to the door. Those cookies are not for sale. I don’t have too many left. I repackaged the remaining cookies to get more bags of fewer cookies.
“Nice try,” I heard a cookie shout from the bag. The remaining burned cookies chuckled.
“Don’t laugh, you’ll be eaten first.” My husband walked by and picked up a couple. Crunch. “See?” I hate to say “I told you so.”
I could make another batch, but I’m not going to. I’m really, really tired. I’m wrapping up the cookies and hiding them so they don’t evaporate again. There won’t be any left.
Next time, I’m going to give ten or twenty bucks to the cause. I think it’ll work better that way.