high-bar baking

Of course the musician put this thought in my head. And now I can’t get it out. Looking at you, bestie. 

Artists, especially the wildly famous ones, must get really sick of performing their most classic numbers. We all go to concerts and we just want to hear Miranda Lambert play her greatest hit (I’m twelve in this story). Does she want to do that? Does Maisie? Taylor? 

They want to play their new music. The musical boundaries they’re pushing, the emotional exploration they’re doing right now. Not seven years ago. We don’t care; we’re merciless. 

And there’s nothing wrong with the hits. They’re hits for a reason, and it’s not the world’s biggest burden to travel the world performing all your new and your old music as a cost of doing business. 

But I feel that way sometimes about baking. In this instance, I brought it on myself, and it’s not a big deal. I asked what the group wanted for dance party afternoon, and the host suggested anything in the realm of toffee, brown sugar, caramel notes. I have a banger for that, Sarah’s Un-Chocolate Chip Cookies, but those are special day of and normal after that. I was coming in from out of town and needed something that would freeze, so I went with my old faithful, Sarah’s Brown Sugar Cookies. I’d made them for this crowd before, even. 

And they were a hit. People were impressed. We even made some ice cream sandwiches out of them. I know I’m not a one-trick pony, and nobody else thinks I am. 

We enjoy the hits. All afternoon, we queued up hits. That’s all we ever do with line dancing anyway. We want to know the steps, to follow them, to hear a song we’ve heard many times before but still love. 

Play it again, Sam.

Nobody’s complaining.