I baked tonight -- shortbread cookies for the Saint Valentine's Day party next week. I have a fancy mixer, but my kitchen is so small that it's a major production to even get the darn thing out. And then there is not enough space between the cabinets and counter top for the mixer to fit between, so I have to either hold the edge of it up prop it up with a complicated system of cutting boards and upside down bowls and pulleys, or haul it to the living room and use it on the coffee table.
Instead, I love pulling out the Pyrex bowls I've collected over the years from family members and cracking open my well-worn Joy of Cooking cookbook and baking in my ancient oven. This evening I didn't play a DVD in my laptop or turn on the radio or spin a record. I soaked in the sounds of the wooden spoon on the side of the bowl, the eggs cracking and the cookie cutter slicing though the dough and the old timer ticking.
I don't have many periods of quiet like that. It drove me slightly crazy. But I made myself do it. And it turned out well. As did the cookies. I've been buying Indiana produced butter and eggs, the results were delicious.
I typically give myself permission to eat the broken cookies, but that is not a Weight Watchers sanctioned activity.
What the heck, one won't hurt, right?