Without shame, I indulge in creating weapons of complete destruction. My products, science reveals, can rot the body from the inside out. Ingesting too much over time can provoke the body to augment in size. The users of my products are content to ruin their bodies with my concoctions, aware of the health professionals who harangue them to put the fruits of my labor down and lead more cautious lives. Of course, I wreak all this havoc with love.
I am bound to the art of crafting confections from sugar and flour and butter. Since I was old enough to know what hobbies are, baking was mine. As a child, I made some devastatingly terrible cakes from a gaggle of incongruous ingredients. Vividly, I remember my mother attempting to feed birds a cake of flavored gelatin, soy sauce, no sugar, and too much pride. I also remember the birds inevitably declining this culinary offering.
Over time, I graduated from nonsense, capricious recipes I conjured in my head to box mixes, to tentatively following recipes I found in borrowed cookbooks. From then on, baking and I became inseparable.
I found an excuse to bake for any occasion. Last Thanksgiving, I churned out over twenty pumpkin rolls as gifts. On my loved ones' birthdays, it became a rule that I was the one who made the cakes. One Christmas, I baked and constructed gingerbread castles, Victorian mansions, and trains for my brothers to decorate.
My coupling with baking infused itself into my academic life. For a presentation on The Red Scare in high school, I made up for my less than savory skills in public speaking by bringing in red velvet cupcakes. My forgettable presentation on disguised meaning in literature was marked by an unforgettable cake veiled with black fondant that revealed a rainbow interior. I fervently bound my identity to my ability to make people happy by bringing them towering, delicate pastries.
Baking is not only essential to my identity because it allows for me to be liked. When I am happy, I direct my energy towards whipping egg whites, beating butter and sugar, and creating custards. On my worst days, to prevent sorrow from numbing me entirely, I force myself to bake. I distinctly remember the chocolate mousse cake I made to battle my blues one weekend, and not whatever it was that made me sad.
Through my hobby, I have snagged some valuable qualities. Baking has let me be more creative than I could ever be with paint and paper. I have learned the importance of being thorough and precise, as misreading directions can destroy a baking endeavor beyond repair. Additionally, I know the necessity of being flexible: if I am out of an ingredient, I find substitutions. I know to be prepared when things refuse to work the way I want them to. In my future, I want to siphon my creativity, passion, resourcefulness, and resiliency to create a life where I make other people happy by doing something essential to my soul.
