Two christmas’ ago, hubby got me a big fancy kitchen aid mixer. He must of assumed that, because I cook, that I also bake. Which I do not. And, although this concept should not be a new one for him, as we have been together for over a decade, I understand I am hard to buy for, and he went with what he thought would be a big gift. I will admit, I did gush a bit about it at first. I mean, it was lovely, so shiny and new. It had all these fun attachments, allowing me to mix, whip, beat, and all that jazz. I pulled it right out and began thinking just what I could mix, whip or beat…I had nothing. I know no baking recipes, and I had nothing in a box to pretend make. The few times I have used it to make cookies, some went awry…and they burnt (I blame faulty oven calibration)…so I fed them to my dog Henry…who proceeded to throw up twice and had gas the rest of the night. He still dry heaves whenever he sees me pull something out of the oven.
The best part about this mixer, is the gift just keeps on giving, apparently there are a bajillion attachments available, and each birthday and holiday, surprise, I get a new one. I could make my own sausage if I wanted now! I mean, I totally threw up a little in my mouth at the thought of that, but I have the option, and I could totally make it happened the next time I have some intestinal casing laying about.
Every so often, I hear hubby ask why I don’t bake more, or use my shiny black mixer, and I remind him, hunny, I don’t bake, just ask Henry.