The idea: I said to my son, “Let’s make some chocolate muffins. You know how to do it!” We love to cook and bake things. Something you probably don’t know about me: I am a Certified Holistic Nutritionist (CNP) who can practice in Canada and the U.S. but not (yet) in Europe. I will share an article about it all when appropriate.
The scene & utensils: Kitchen, table, large bowl, and a hand-held mixer (since when do I have a hand-held mixer, mom?)
The ingredients: 2 eggs, flour, baking soda, milk, butter, cacao, chocolate sprinkles, and Agave syrup instead of sugar.
The instructions: Place all the ingredients on the table, measure everything with a “food” scale (again, mom?!), and add to bowl. This is where my son comes in. He is in charge of mixing everything together. Here we go:
- Every single surface of the room is sticky and coated with a fine, white powder within two minutes.
- I said, “Please don’t touch that! Bag that up right now! Bag! It! Up!” and his name at least a dozen times in the past forty-five minutes. Then I shouted, “Be careful with the mixer!”
- My mood and attitude are completely at odds with the loud, cheerful music at this radio station mixed with more horrifying Corona news that serves as the soundtrack for our activities. “Ask Alexa to play Best of Patti Smith!”
- The baking partner assigned to me is covered in flour and chocolate and is constantly asking questions.
- I think I may be too old for this shit. As a colleague at work said, “Just buy the damn muffins!”
- My son’s baking methods would be roundly criticized by any fire marshall with half a brain in his head, but it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.
- The whole apartment is covered in fingerprints.
- I have said, “Did you wash your hands? DID YOU? Wash! Your! Hands!” at least a million times in the past forty-five minutes.
- I have shed a few tears while I clean up. It’s not like I am made of stone. This Corona-virus-s*** is getting to me hard but I want to make my son feel good. If I don’t let this stuff out once in a while, it’ll turn me into a monster.
- He moves things around before I can take photos (to send to my parents). Wait. Is this a Lego figure in the dough and who put it in?
- Somehow, I have to mold these doughy elements into a cohesive whole — something I can tuck into a neat and tidy box and tie-up with a bow to give some to my neighbor. Something the outside world will accept.
- Is this chocolate, maybe blood, Lego figures, or PlayDoh?
- We did it. The muffins look okay. I don’t expect any thanks for what I did and do on a daily basis in this Pandemic. I am also a hairdresser and a teacher now. I can do it all. I can cut my own and my son’s hair. I am also able to teach first-grade mathematics, reading, and writing, art, sports, you name it. Corona made it all possible.
- Oh, by the way, no one’s getting through this day without a tummy ache because there were indeed tiny pieces of Lego in it. Just get the Corona vaccine and turn into a giant Lego Zombie.
