Eighth Post

So, our projects draw to a close. To be honest, I can think of no way to statistically state that my project was a success. My idea of dividing my failures and triumphs into a neat ratio was silly, there were so many recipes that I messed up and everyone loved, or that were perfect and plain. Nor can I say that I will be hosting a baking show on food network anytime soon. I still haven't figured out how to flip a crepe. No, there is no math formula that says that I can feel anything other than defeat. The difference between math and language arts is that I am not a simple calculator, and that I will use words to tell you that I couldn't be happier with my project.

There is an element of pride that comes with anything well done. I felt proud when my family ate all my brownies, just as Barbara Kingsolver felt proud when her family ate all the food she grew. Sure, I didn't harvest my own cacao beans, grind my own flour, take eggs from a shed full of chickens. I know that my eggs probably came from a CFAO and my milk from a half dead cow, but my Chocolate came from a company specializing in fine confections. My cookies came from my oven, they were not those crumbly pink frosted cookies from walmart. My cakes were home made, and using Betty Crocker's box mixes will never be the same. The other week I did make some cupcakes from a mix. My little cousin was turning eight, and I thought I would give her some decorated cupcakes. In the end they looked nice, but the smell of the batter was nothing like anything out of my Ghirardelli cookbook, or anything organic for that matter. Stirring together powder and water just doesn't seem to to as big as an accomplishment anymore.