high-bar baking

Like so many things in life, I forget until I am reminded. 

Even though I personally know how it feels, I always tell myself it’s totally fine if there’s someone who can’t have what I bake. There will be more bites at the apple, I say, and I want to make this cookie for this party. I’ll warn so-and-so to stay away. 

I grew up that way. And it truly is fine. It isn’t personal, and my quality of life has not been reduced because I can’t eat tree nuts. Sometimes I am sad, but sometimes everyone is sad. That’s just life. 

So I tell myself that it’s ok not to cater to everyone all of the time, and is it. 

Then I do it once, and I remember why I do. 

There is a particular face. I’ve worn it, and I’ve seen it, and I got it from my dancing friend last weekend when I made Peanut Butter Fudge, which is gluten free. I made cake for the rest of us, and fudge just for her. And her face. It said, “You cared enough to remember, you cared enough to think of me. This is a thing that doesn’t matter at all, and that’s why it matters.” She — a grown-ass woman — squealed and took a running start to hug me. 

That’s what being reminded looks like. And it’s not about allergies, not really. They’re just a convenient vessel for the point. People just want to feel special. 

And that’s a value I try to uphold: “If the amount of effort it will take for you to do it is way less than the amount of happiness it will bring the other person, you should do it. (Who needs more?)” 

You know I wrote that because it’s deeply less concise than it could be. But it’s mine.