I like to bake, but I do it to escape.

I bake bread, muffins (the sweet and savoury kind), apple pies, crumbles and cookies. I bake sugar free muffins for the baby to eat. I bake low salt bread for him to munch on. I sit my two year old up at the counter and get him to measure out the flour, mix the eggs, pour in the water.

I’m a baking goddess, a wonderful Mum, preparing wholesome food for her kids to eat.

Except I’m not.

I like to bake, but I do it to escape.

When the two year old’s latest game doesn’t interest me. When I’ve reached my limit of book reading and question-answering.

“Mummy what are trees made of?”

“Mummy do you know what an anchor is?”

I bake because I can’t ignore him and read a book. I bake because I can’t sit down and write instead of doing jigsaws; because it’s an acceptable means of distracting myself from mothering- more acceptable than scrolling through social media.

So he measures out the flour, rolls the cookie dough, cuts out shapes in a haphazard manner and we cook them in the oven.

He asks to lick the bowl and I am reminded of my own mother. Baking. Delegating the measuring and the mixing.

I  bake because she taught me this is what mothers do. Mixing ingredients at the kitchen table. Waiting for cakes to be baked, cooled, covered in icing; and finally, eaten.

I see her now in my mind’s eye, cutting apples into an apple tart. I see the buttermilk jug that resided over the range, always on the ready for a new loaf of brown bread.

I bake because of happy memories and comforting smells. I bake to create something with my child.

I bake to fill our bellies with food.

…and our minds with memories.

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