For the past couple months, I've been recovering from a back injury (a "bulging disc") that has made going about my day a little bit more difficult that usual. The simplest movements--leaning over to brush my teeth, opening the oven, even putting on my shoes--have become an exercise in creativity and (at times) contortionism.
The first couple weeks after my "episode" I was in much too much pain to really do any serious cooking, let alone baking. Dinner became a bit of a slapped-together affair featuring a variety of sandwiches and salads and the occasional delivery from the nearby Italian restaurant that does dinner well, but dessert not so much.
After a couple weeks of this, I'd had enough. I missed baking! I missed creaming together softened butter and sugar until it reaches that light and fluffy point. I missed sifting together a cloud of flour and baking powder and salt. I missed the familiar flow of running a spatula gently through the batter to combine the dry and wet ingredients. Most of all, I missed that moment, just a few minutes before the timer rings, when the scent of freshly baked cake seems to suddenly fill every nook in my home alerting anyone who is paying attention that it. is. ready.
I was still in quite a bit of pain, but I couldn't resist, and so one Monday afternoon, Eugene came home from the gym to find me cracking eggs in the kitchen. "What's going on here? Are you baking again?"
"I'm trying," I replied, moderating my response so as to not get his hopes up.