Dear Baking,

I think it was love at first sight.

tiny, toddler hands around a cool, metal whisk

and my mother’s soft hands gently guiding them.

the saccharinely sweet scent of chocolate

would dance through every room in that house.

I was determined to let you into every second

of the flour-dusted life I planned to live.

even the days where I cracked eggs

feeling the icy slime drip through my less-than-capable fingers

I knew you were at the end of the road- or rather, the obnoxious beeping of our oven timer.

I finally achieved an intense, compelling belief that I had a plan.

when we heard that chiming ringtone with an unfortunate similarity to our doorbell

and I understood it was from the food network.

every one of those microscopic, cardboard, puzzle pieces

that cover the scratchy, beige carpet in our game closet was snapping into place.

you gave me a connection to my family

that encouraged me to follow my dreams

even if the dreams were smothered in vanilla frosting or studded with chocolate chips.

with whom I still struggle to be a help and not a hindrance.

I open the creaky wooden cabinets

and spin the spices in tiny, clear containers on their white, plastic turntable.

yet along with the spicy odor of cinnamon, what really rushes in is

the guilt clinging to me for losing my devotion

once I laid eyes on this new adult world of expectations and reality.

it’s still a struggle some days wondering why

the minutes that I can hear constantly tick away between

the soft, rosy leather tight on my left wrist

aren’t always mine to give.

and it’s so often not about what we truly love

but what we can afford to love.

we’re still playmates at times.

the soft, red, oven mitts over my hands again.

you remind me of why I adored you.

that smooth, silver whisk in my grasp.

the rich, sharp chocolate drifting around the room.

my siblings giggling on stools that screech against the floor.

waiting at the golden, brown wood of the kitchen table.

love you always,

emma