A Mediocre Baker Finds His Inner Child

I’d like to say that I know my limitations. That’s probably an exaggeration. I do know that I probably don’t have the DNA to be a pastry chef: not fastidious enough, not micro-detailed enough, not visually creative enough. Nope. I stick to basics: pies, cookies, banana bread and such, a bit of basic bread baking. That’s it.

Oh yeah, and once in a blue while, pasta-making.

My mom of blessed memory used to say that when I was really young, the other kids my age would come off the playground covered in dirt and mud. While I looked more or less pristine. Apparently even back then, I didn’t like getting my hands dirty. Which perhaps goes somewhat deep into my being a reluctant baker: too much flour pollen everywhere, dust, and gooey hands, and messy kitchen surfaces everywhere, and who the fuck wants to clean all that shit up.

Making fettucine should be my Orwellian Room 101. My nails on the blackboard moment (or for me, also, emery board nail filing, ugh). For some reason, not. I actually enjoy shaping this hollow crater of flour on the dining room table that doubles as our big prep surface in our soul food kitchen, even though I know that every single crevice in that wood table is soaking up flour. Likewise, it’s a pleasure to crack the half dozen eggs into the center of that crater and work them in to the floury walls. A strange giddiness comes over me when I look at my hands, caked in the ungodly mess.

This chaotic mess continues on into the kneading and then rolling out of the dough (either rolling pin or hand-cranked machine) and then cutting the elongated dough into thin strips of fettucine. More flour tossed on the pasta to keep it on the dry side. I look around: The kitchen and horizons beyond are a total disaster.

A wide grin spreads across me. I’m pretty fucking content. The clean-up can wait. Now that’s a revolutionary thought. I really think I’m regressing back into childhood. It’s a good thing.