I am not a baker.  Nor am I really that great of a cook, though people near and dear to me like to think so.  I have too many mishaps.

Like overfilling cupcake tins, the cake crusting the top and gluing the contents in.  That was for my best friend’s birthday, as blogged here. 

Or the birthday cupcakes I made for myself, the frosting not quite coalescing.  I still dream of mango butter cream.

I made a birthday pie a while ago.  I did a practice run the night before, and it turned out smashing.  I made the pie the day of the party, used a different pie plate, and mistakenly thought it would bake in the same amount of time.  Nope.  It was still somewhat raw before I left for work.  I am such a dumbass.

I threw a tantrum.  And I’ve thrown other cooking tantrums. Not many people know this, but I’m still a half-formed adult.  I usually present a nice face to the world, but insecurities are tricked out by difficulties and stress.  I’m an only child, so there is a degree of entitlement.  Then I make some mistakes.  Expectations and reality collide cruelly. 

When something doesn’t work out the way I want it to, I get frustrated.  That birthday pie sent me into a tailspin and almost ruined my day.  Almost.  Life went on anyway.  I gave the birthday girl a book I knew she’d love.  She loved it.  I do have gift-giving prowess, even if I lack in the baking department. 

The practice of cooking and baking has taught me a few things.  Things don’t work out all the time.  Infinite variables change and color an outcome.  Sometimes something comes out awful.  Sometimes it comes out decent.  Sometimes it comes out exactly as you thought it would.  And sometimes it comes out fabulous in an entirely different fashion.  You gotta roll with it.  I would guess this is one of God’s many ways of rehabbing my expectations and impatience, while also rewarding me for my growing diligence.  What?  I’m becoming more diligent? 

I had a craving for cookies last week.  I bought a box of lemon cookies at Wal-Mart that day and they tasted like lemon Lifesavers.  Yuck.  I rummaged through the fridge that night and came across remains.  A smidge of lemon curd left in the jar and a slice of old lemon.  I feel so accomplished when I use up fridge cleanings. 

I have a lovely relationship with lemon curd.  It tastes like the lemon part of lemon meringue pie in a jar.  Deliciously scoopable, it sits squat and elegant next to yogurts and cream cheese in the refrigerator.  

My mother likes to spoon jam directly out of the jar into her mouth.  When I went to Paris, I bought her fancy apricot jam from Galeries Lafayette.  It quickly disappeared.  That’s a quirk I can claim, now that lemon curd has come along.

Anyway, I made fabulous cookies.  They were crispy, crunchy brown on the outside, with a hit of lemon curd on the inside.  

I didn’t write down how I did it.  It was at night and all I wanted was a damn cookie.

I tried it again today, vaguely remembering what went in and how much.  But I know I changed some things around. 

The cookies came out entirely different.  They had a light crumb and lemon subtlety. They actually reminded me of cookies my grandma used to make, which isn’t a bad thing.  It’s a fabulous thing.