Why this is not a foodie blog

Let it be put on the record -- I cannot bake.  Really, I’m terrible. I make a four year old with a broken easy-bake oven look like they ought to host the Cake Boss. My baking incompetence is brought to my attention time and time again.  Such occasions might include visiting teaching appointments, when the girl I visit gives me a baggie of homemade fudge after I hand her a crushed Mini Snickers from my backpack- because I remembered she loved chocolate.  Or when new neighbors move in, and they bring me the plate of cookies.  Pretty much every holiday is a nightmare. And I don't really want to discuss church potlucks. Yes, I'm the sad soul who sets a pack of Lifesavers on the dessert table with some lame comment like, "There's five flavors in every pack... *awkward laugh*...*cough*... It's better this way." 

Let's just say I've grown accustomed to the plaguing guilt that comes with not knowing how to execute a simple chocolate chip cookie recipe. Which is why I shouldn't have been surprised by my most recent baking-guilt encounter: a Sunday school class of eleven year old girls. You'd think by now I would have a rehearsed excuse.  Well, I do.  But a room full of Bambi-eyed children threw me off my guard.  I caved.

Here's how it went down five minutes into my Sunday School lesson:

Even I wasn't prepared for the crushing sadness in their eyes.  

However, this was just the beginning.

Well, too bad, girls.  You can't get me with heart-wrenching guilt - you don't know the home I grew up in.  I've been building an immunity since birth. So I'm not threatened by how awesome you think the other teacher is for bringing you treats - it doesn't phase me.  Doesn't bother me one...

Man, these girls do not pull their punches.  Honestly, how do you compete with this? 

The most frustrating part - it’s true.  Her pastries do taste like love and sunshine. I know because she gave me a leftover last month, and I spitefully ate every sprinkle all the while pretending that each bite didn't taste like it was crafted by tiny angels.

But even with the guilt and "cupcake love" being lorded over my head, I was going to stay strong. Then they plunged in the dagger.

What do I do at this point?  Just man up and tell the girls that I love them, but I'm not the type of Sunday School teacher that brings treats to class? Tell them I am an unbaked cupcake's worst nightmare and let the cards fall how they may? Simply allow them to accept me for who I am - cupcake or no cupcake?  You know -- take the higher road.

Ooooooor, do I take the cheap way out, find the quickest scapegoat I can think of, and run with it?

I think I'll go with what's behind Door #2.

Which leads me to the real purpose of this post:  to pronounce my new found love of kitchenettes.  

Dear Kitchenette,

Thank you for being my fall guy.  You rock.

Love,

Kristi