Am I a Witch, or Just a Virgin that Can’t Drive?

I’m Basically a Witch

Eye of newt, dead man’s chums, and a few souls are all I need to make a beautiful cake.

I draw intricate designs that I wouldn’t have dreamed of making a few years ago and execute them with ease.

My cakes are praised and I’m often told I should start a bakery, sell my cakes online, or have a cookbook.

I combine absurd flavors and they come out fantastic.

I barely do anything to my hair. It just dries like this.

I can smell when most cakes are ready. I don’t even need a timer or a toothpick.

I regularly temper white chocolate successfully.

I’m Basically a Virgin that Can’t Drive

One time I made Lemon Chiffon cake three times in a row and it failed in a different way EVERY TIME.

I served new acquaintances an ice cream cake that was so icy I could never see them again.

I roll my eyes when people say something is “too rich.”

I get so angry at “coats the back of a spoon” as a direction that I will complain for hours about the recipe.

If you don’t tell me how much a cup of flour weighs (FYI this can range from 120 - 150 grams, depending on the recipe), I’ll hold a grudge until you die.

I’ve eaten cakes off of car hoods, knives, my feet, the kitchen garbage (top of!), and the floor.

My frostings are always too runny. Always.

I regularly cry in frustration while covered in flour, getting even more raw flour in my beard.

There’s No Crying in the Kitchen… Just Kidding: There’s a TON of Crying in the Kitchen!

Baking really does make me feel like a witch sometimes.

I combine a myriad of powders, plants and extracts in a slurry, expose it to heat, and pull out a confection guaranteed to bring joy. My efforts create community and joy. I bring people together to form memories. A sort of magic is in the air when we’re eating the fruits of this labor.

And baking really does make me feel like a virgin that can’t drive.

I spend hours obsessing over bakes. I doodle pictures of the cakes I’ll make in the margins of my notebooks. I make special trips for the perfect ingredients. I fantasize about how the bake will go and put on a special outfit in anticipation. I practically write Mr. & Mr. Frostings Evenbake in powdered sugar hearts on the counter.

And when the cake doesn’t rise, or my sponge bottoms out, or I get a taste in my mouth and realize this evening isn’t going where I thought it would, I cry. I tell myself plenty of people live fulfilling lives without ever having made a good lemon curd, but I don’t believe it.

Oftentimes when I’m trying something particularly hard, I can tell it’s all going to work out. The energy in the kitchen makes anything possible. Othertimes, I know the kitchen is only going to bring heartache. The air is thick. The aura is burnt. The cakes are guaranteed to collapse.

If I could find a way to harness my intention, I’d really be a kitchen witch.

Maybe I need more crystals? Or sage? Or bird skulls?

I guess the intangible magic of baking is the fun: the high highs and the low lows and the medium lows and the this-is-good-enough-since-it’s-just-the-two-of-us-eating-this-stodgy-bundts. That doesn’t change the fact that sometimes failure in the kitchen feels like failing in life.

But it’s not.

I have to keep reminding myself it’s not.

Unless you’re Iaian.