Someone once said most people are either cooks or bakers.
Cooks like the free flow of experimentation — changing ingredients at whim, improvising with whatever’s on hand, measuring by eye and sense rather than cups and spoons. They dance around the kitchen in their bare feet, taking great pride in the fact that their spaghetti sauce might turn out differently each time. Oh, the thrill of uncharted territory!
photo by dyogi.
Bakers, on the other hand, love precision — ingredients must be measured with care (pack down that brown sugar, level off those measuring spoons and cups). When dealing with yeast and leaveners, one must follow protocol and tip toe around the kitchen, lest the soufflé fall, the bread refuse to rise, or the cookies turn out hard as rock. Baking is beautifully scientific — kitchen chemistry.
Which leads me to today’s poem, which makes me sad, because it reminds me of my cousin who lost his mother just before Thanksgiving last year. You may remember my post about Auntie Ella, who was a great baker and suffered from dementia. My cousin quit his job and devoted four years of his life to her constant care.
Jama's Alphabet Soup 