The Butcher, the baker, the mess it up maker

I have fond memories of watching my mom prepare holiday meals.

I sat staring intently, mostly just faking patience until I could lick the batter from the spoons, mixer and bowls and smell the pastries in the oven. 

Smell is the most direct of all the senses, and it is directly tied to memories. 

Each time I break out the mixer, sugar and flour, I travel back to my mother's kitchen, and the stress melts away immediately.

I won't claim to be Martha Stewart or Julia Child; I must confess that I avoided home ec as a young feminist. 

Yes, I am a late bloomer just finding my own cooking style at 38.  

Yes, my method involves crock pots, my own version of the easy bake oven, an obsession with Top Chef and all things cooking channel, and a 2 year old sous chef, but we manage to create some incredible dishes.

It is nice while under seige from family and friends in the age old holiday tug of war (that even though you brace yourself for every year, never gets easier),  to take a minute and remember back to holiday's past, when you didn't know there was so much drama, and the first time your mama let you lick the batter right from the mixer attachments.  

Most everything else pales in comparison.

Even better; REALLY let yourself get lost in the moment.