I love to cook. I really love to bake stuff: cookies, cakes, scones, bread. (You may have noticed from my blogroll, ahem.)
One of the blogs on my blogroll is a commercial blog – “Bakers Banter” – which I decided to link to even though it was a pro-blog because the recipes seemed good.
Until I clicked the link this morning and read this:
Your teenage son comes home, dumps his backpack on the kitchen floor, opens the refrigerator, drinks from the milk carton with one hand while grabbing a box of cereal, bag of chips, and fistful of cookies with the other, and somehow, through his full mouth, manages to mumble, “Remember the team dinner tonight—you have to bring dessert.”
Team dinner… tonight?! When… where…
“Hey, wait a minute, buddy, you NEVER told me about any team dinner. What do you mean, dessert? It’s 4:30! What time is this dinner?”
But you’re talking to his back as he exits the kitchen, basketball in hand. “I-told-you-you-never-listen-it’s-at-the-school-at-6-o’clock-see-ya-there.” Slam.
The kitchen, silent once more, glares balefully at you. Bad mom! So now what are you gonna do, huh? You’ve got 90 minutes. Your reputation as the team’s reigning-champion, bake-from-scratch parental unit is at stake.
Are you up to the challenge, or is there a quick trip to the market and three packs of Double-Stuf Oreos in your (very) near future?
My parents taught me how to cook, beginning with cookies and cupcakes. I have an older brother, and they taught him how to cook, too. I can tell you exactly what my mum’s reaction would have been to this kind of demand from my brother: either he get back into the kitchen and bake dessert himself, or do without. Especially if it was presented as this kind of rude, it’s-your-job-so-do-it-now demand.
I love baking for people. I love doing large batches of cookies or cakes for a party. So did – and do – both my parents. But I wouldn’t love being ordered to produce them without so much as a please, thank you, apology, or praise.
And really – who would? Why is this blog producing such an appalling “Bad mom!” backstory for what is (actually) a good quick recipe for cookies? We do not live in the 1950s. Palin isn’t Queen of the United States yet (and hopefully never will be). This kind of story isn’t cute or funny; it’s a boy who’s bullying his mom.
Update: In response to my comment, the blog’s owner claims this as a real event that happened some years ago, not as an anti-feminist morality anecdote about how good moms don’t teach their sons to bake, they make cookies for them on demand.