This evening I successfully made the ugliest cookies known to man, god, or beast.

That was not the intention. This was not some stunt in the service of some obscure end. I had a whim to make cookies. By some miracle I had all of the staples to make them in the house, including just enough gluten free flour. Maybe it would be nice to bring something to the Memorial Day cookout that my celiac-ridden father can eat.

I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was I love my dad too much to serve it to him.

Observe, but please do not laugh:

 

Have you ever seen anything more tragic? The puddle of raw dough surrounded by a lacework of brittle sugar? The pimplesque chocolate chips, covered in the thinnest blanket of cookie? The hopelessness with which they reach out to each other, wondering why, if there is a god, she would have created them in this way?

A seasoned baker could probably tell me what went wrong. I suspect it has something to do with the oven temperature. Or the chill time. Or the capriciousness of the universe.

I want you to know that I have baked things successfully on occasion, even gluten free things. And while I can make about seven different meals relatively competently, cooking is more forgiving than baking, so let’s not get too full of ourselves.

I also kill houseplants and cannot sew.

Any takers, gentlemen?

I kid, of course. The more historical fiction I read, the more I realize how fortunate I am to not have to calibrate my hobbies or proficiencies to the expectations of a man. Not that that is an exclusively historical problem and I am still expected to make such adjustments on behalf of gender in other areas, but my security isn’t dependent on that. Neither is my happiness, no matter what a man who kicks balls for a living would have to say about it.

I don’t want you, and I don’t need you, and I think the idea frightens you.

This week I offended a man by asking him not to comment on my appearance while I was at work. He paused for a moment before coming with a comment that of all of the cities he’s lived in, this is the only one where you get in trouble for complimenting a woman. When I gently suggested that maybe it was a change in the times, he told me that I was wrong. I said that I disagreed. He didn’t know what to do with that.

I hope it is a change in the times (and I still doubt very much that it’s my conservative midwest town). If it’s not, it might just be a change in me. I’m not even thirty and I am so sick of the assumption that I exist to make you comfortable.

I do wish that I had more aptitude for the domestic artsbecause I did try one of the cookies and it was inedibleor the desire to learnbecause most of those arts are incredibly useful and cool. But I don’t, which is why I think I can appreciate how fortunate I am not to have to.

(And also that a fruit platter is just as gluten free as my cookies.)

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

post calvin direct

Get new posts from Annaka Koster delivered straight to your inbox.

the post calvin