Saving the World Through Cookies

I bake…a lot. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. For me baking serves as stress release, meditation and cardiovascular exercise all at once (you should see me go). Everything about baking is cathartic. I pour over nearly-pornographic photos of pastries in cookbooks. I use the dry goods section of Bulk Barn to indulge in the fantasy that I’m a spice merchant exploring the Far East for undiscovered flavours. I emerge, warrior-like, from double-batches of this or that, covered in flour, hair tousled and voice hoarse from screaming along to Zydeco music. Given that I’ve a sweet tooth and am determined to leave this world without any insulin in my body, I’m also partial to stuffing myself like a mummy with whatever is hot from the oven.

In recent years, however, I’ve found that baking also serves a social function. It’s one of the few vestiges of human kindness that hasn’t been sullied by the media, or wracked by political correctness, or slime-coated by ingratitude. Compliment someone on their outfit, and they’ll probably think you’re hitting on them (or secretly mocking them). Put change in an expired parking meter, and you’ll get a nifty fine. Give a choking soul the Heimlich, and they’re likely to sue you for bruising their ribs. Offer someone a free something or other, and they’ll berate you for charging them a fair price thereafter.

In the land of cookies, and tarts, and various puffs and mousses, things work differently. Even the most macho, gladiatorial men can be brought to tears if you reproduce the cake their Granny used to make for their birthday. The snooty co-worker who won’t speak to you will smile (in spite of themselves), if you present them with a steaming, fresh cinnamon bun. Hell, even dogs know the difference between bland kibble and something homemade in the shape of a bone.

Blood sugar can scare off hypothermia. Chocolate produces happy chemicals in the brain. Berries keep you young (in more ways than one). We were biologically destined to eat dessert. It’s truly amazing, the way that warm, gooey treats turn us from snarling miscreants into big purple dinosaurs. Everyone’s got their button to be pushed, and if you really want to see the grace that lies within all people, you’ll do what I do. You’ll worship at an altar occupied by a Kitchenaide mixer and a convection oven. You’ll make certain that your hands are always anointed with butter and the scent of vanilla. You’ll greet your fellow carbon-based life forms, not with harsh words and a scowl, but with something sticky and brimming with confectionary benediction. You’ll feel human again when they shut up and eat, and smile, like nice people are supposed to.