I used to bake when I was angry, tired, upset, frustrated - all the reasons why some of us eat, or dive head first into those single serve one pint containers of Ben and Jerry’s - only to find that the creaming of butter and sugar together no longer soothed me the way it once did.

I switched to cleaning; only to find that scrubbing, back-breaking labor made my body ache, but my mind stayed alive and unrested.

I took up running; sweating out the frustration of dealing with B, screaming children, barking dogs, piled up bills - in all the running away I did, I think, I came full circle.

I got up this morning, peered into the pantry, and like a long lost lover finding her way home, fingered the cake flour. Standing there, the box indenting my hand, I felt the last week or so start to drain away - going further when I located the sugar, baking soda and powder, uncorking the wickedly expensive vanilla from William’s Sonoma. I’ve not baked in so long, really truly baked, that it feels quite good to warm up the oven, lovingly butter the pans, lightly dust with flour, prepare them for the delicious outcome of my endeavors.

B settled slowly into the back of my mind as I whisked together the oil and sugars, sweet potatoes baking in the oven, readying themselves for smashing; eggs warming on the counter, as you always always always get better structure with warmish eggs. I found my rythem in the whisking; eggs incorporating ever so slowly, one at a time, into the sugars, the flour sifted, garnished wtih cinnamon, cloves, ginger, vanilla powder.I built a fortress in cake, only to find at one point, it didn’t protect me - either the frosting gave way, or the cake burned; I’d lost my touch, my feel, my sense of direction.

This morning? It came back. Like falling in love; only better. Putting ones heart into ones baking is a must; finding ones heart in oneself all over again?

Just icing on the cake