I’m baking for the bake sale. Declan’s school has a table at the Scituate Art Festival. This is my first opportunity to raise money for the elementary school. I’m not good at fundraising but on days where I pay attention, I can cook. On days I don’t, I burn outlines of sandwiches on frying pans.
I planned ahead. Yesterday, I assembled my local butter, vegan sugar, and organic King Arthur all-purpose flour. I begin to bake. Declan helped. It’s stressful policing a six-year old baker who really only wants to double-dip his finger into the sugar.
“Go wash your hands again.” I told him. Don’t worry, he hasn’t slimed your cookie. I had to wash several spoons, though.
Baking cookies has taken me a total of two days. I was wise to have started yesterday. I figured I’d do the dough one day and the baking the next. What I didn’t know is that dough, it seems, evaporates in the refrigerator. Or maybe en route from the bowl to the Tupperware container. One particular handful didn’t evaporate, though. It was stolen. I caught the boy dough-handed.
“I used the spoon,” he said, hiding the half-tray of cookie sized ball. I took it. I threw it out. There’s a half-tray no one gets to sell. Then I burned a couple of trays when someone came to the door. Those cookies are not for sale. I don’t have too many left. I repackaged the remaining cookies to get more bags of fewer cookies.
“Nice try,” I heard a cookie shout from the bag. The remaining burned cookies chuckled.
“Don’t laugh, you’ll be eaten first.” My husband walked by and picked up a couple. Crunch. “See?” I hate to say “I told you so.”
I could make another batch, but I’m not going to. I’m really, really tired. I’m wrapping up the cookies and hiding them so they don’t evaporate again. There won’t be any left.
Next time, I’m going to give ten or twenty bucks to the cause. I think it’ll work better that way.
Ah, this story reminds me of when a neighbor asked me to bake cupcakes for a fundraiser and I went off at her: “Really? Are you serious? Can’t I just give you money? Do you know what my days are like as a working mother?” She never asked me again. It was not my proudest moment, but I really don’t think my baking cupcakes is going to solve any problems.
I’ve learned to donate cash. I cannot be bothered to bake.
I wish I asked you about this a couple days ago.
The first couple of times it’s kinda hard to see the hurt in your child’s face when you “opt out”. But hang in, because they will accept it, and start being helpful by asking about the “opt out” amounts for you. “Mr. Hand? How much if my mom just wants to pay and get it over with? She’d rather not trash her kitchen, and nobody really likes her cupcakes, anyway. They taste like waffles.”
I don’t mind the baking, I just feel that my small contribution isn’t as much as handing them a twenty. By the time they all steal my dough, there are about thirty cookies… Hmmm… I was thinking chocolate dipped oreos for next time. There’s a blog I read, The Room Mom. She’s a master at this. A GENIUS.
Are ya gonna put them on little sticks? Because that’s wicked cool.
That’s just what I was thinking… like vlad the impaler…