How I got into the baking craze as a ready-made dough mum
It took more than an hour for the kitchen to stop sticking. That was this time last year. It could just as easily have been our baking low point ... but from the beginning.
It's always so nice to imagine: little hands in bowls full of flour. Until the flour is everywhere but in the bowl. And the children, their hands coated in butter and sugar, get into each other's hair. Literally. And fighting over who gets to fold the beaten egg whites into the mixture. And then I become a tamer with a whisk - and experience feelings as if I'm being whisked myself.
Of course, you learn over time. I knowingly turned the page of the baking book with the elaborate pointed biscuits after making some beginner's mistakes. I removed cookie cutters that were already peeking out of the drawer with their thin dinosaur necks in a passive-aggressive manner. And at one point even praised the flavour of Mailänderli, this classic sweet treat, although in my eyes they are baking boredom.
Today I can admit it: Baking with the children means stress for me.
However, behind the supposed family romance inherent in baking, abysses sometimes opened up, at least as dark as a Gugelhop hole. So one thing led to another, and this one led to Brunsli dough. And to the fact that I can confess today: Baking with the children is stressful for me.
So why don't I just leave it alone? It's not like it's my favourite hobby. Nor do I really measure my quality as a mum by the joint output from the oven. But such an idyll around the bowl of dough: the idea that this should somehow be possible seems like an Achilles heel when it comes to eradicating my inner expectations of motherhood.
A wild gingerbread house
And last year, my heel must have been particularly sore. I don't know what else would have made me suddenly rise up in front of the packaged dough and head for the baking ingredients shelf. There I packed ingredients such as cardamom and nutmeg into my basket. And then, equipped in this way, I would pile up at home and decide: Now we're going to make gingerbread houses, and not with a kit, but ourselves, from A to Z.
It got wild. Especially as none of the children wanted to miss their pastry mum re-enacting «The Great Bake». Four of us occupied the kitchen. Stirring, kneading and rolling out bases. Shaped walls and roofs and changed trays. When I saw how tough the dough was sticking to the kitchen worktop, I paused, argued and doubted. In the end, I gave up - and I gave in to this collective motivation with an almost surprisingly unexpected unity.
When everyone was building, handling marzipan and decorating, there wasn't an inch of pastry left in the kitchen. But it felt good. So good that the cleaning afterwards was acceptable. So harmonious that a «revival» now seems tempting. But also so conciliatory that I could perhaps let the thought of baking go right now, nicely covered up.
But I still don't know whether I should go through with it.
