My daughter likes to cook, and bake. And as I may or may not have mentioned in past blogs (I can’t really remember much of anything these days – thanks perimenopause), she is the owner/operator of one extremely exclusive, extremely strict – to the point of being oppressive and downright disparaging – restaurant called “Chez Tess”.
OK, so “Chez Tess” is just her cooking for our family and forcing us to eat her food – when, where, and exactly HOW she says (down to every last painful “no you can’t go to the washroom, it’s time to eat, sit down at the goddamn table” detail), but whatever. We’ve given this recurring experience a name because all such things need to be formally acknowledged and/or documented. Just in case.
So today, with the holiday season fast approaching – or at least a month to go – she declared (in no uncertain terms, as she usually does with everything) that it was “time” for Christmas baking to start. Now, any normal person would rejoice in the fact that their daughter would take it upon herself to plan and prepare an elaborate menu for cookie and dessert making, which she would do ALL on her own, which would indeed TASTE delicious – because she IS a good cook, after all.