If I had a kitchen, I would bake sticky buns every Tuesday. My cookbooks now mock me, untested. I want to finger through the tainted pages of tried recipes and refer to my handwritten notes “Add a little more sugar” or “Use 1 cup flour.” I long to pry apart the few recipe pages stuck together from a past spill now long dried.
The yeast sits idle, its temper awaits full bloom in future breads. With cinnamon, the result is limitless. I want to pursue the travels within my mixing bowl and hum to a mindless tune. I reminisce the warm, sweet air coming from a busy oven. Soon, but not soon enough, I will tear off a portion of parchment paper from the metal edge and unintentionally over-melt the stick of butter in the microwave.
And the permanently stained oven mitt, muffin tins, and rolling pin still sleep, each pending their moment. The once familiar measuring cups and spoons are suspended in constant time-out. My silent green vintage timer holds back its tick-ticking and its happy DING.
I will find my baking voice once again. That voice will be unpacked from the very bottom of the sealed box labeled “Kitchen.” I will dance with the wooden spoon in hand as French bread reaches full doneness. I will venture through my organized cupboards for the perfect spice and compile lists of sundry supplies. The new neighbors will nose over my backyard fence and be heartily welcomed for coffee and scones.
