Someone's in the kitchen....

Among my many domestic weaknesses is my disdain for baking. It's boring. It's messy. It requires a precision that does not in any way come naturally to me.

My mom is, and her mom was, a wonderful baker. Both of my brothers have the baking gene as well. Many a holiday has been devoted to bake-offs (which is really a more polite way to say pissing contests) between my brothers:

Brother #1 - I'm making apple pie for Thanksgiving.

Brother #2 - I'm making caramel apple pie for Thanksgiving.

Brother # 1 - Oh yeah? I'm making caramel/apple/pecan pie for Thanksgiving.

Brother # 2 - Well, I'm making caramel/apple/pecan/chocolate pie for Thanksgiving. And it will weigh 5.7 pounds.

It is worth noting that this past Thanksgiving, we managed to have one pie per person. One whole pie for each person. Someone needs to stop this, and soon.

Even Steve and Kelsey are great at baking. Steve's cookies always come out perfectly, and never mind the fact that when Kelsey bakes, batter ends up on the ceiling (honestly, HOW does she do that?) She always turns out delicious things. She made a pumpkin cheesecake for Thanksgiving that I could have devoured single handedly had someone else not gotten there first.

As a child, I remember my mom and my brothers in the kitchen, happily baking cookies or, her specialty, chocolate eclairs. (I have never tasted another chocolate eclair like my mom's - and believe me, I've tried them all.)

Because I was a rather cantankerous and contrary child, and, really, a miserable teenager, I'm sure I made a conscious decision to NOT learn how to bake. And, by golly, I've stuck with it over the years.

But I do make an exception once per year. Every Christmas Eve, I bake an apple pie to take to my sister-in-law's Christmas dinner. I have, if I do say so myself, become a family celebrity because of my apple pie. Well, OK, maybe I am just dreaming this last part. But still.

Here's the thing - I hate peeling apples. I hate it so much, in fact, that when the kids were small, I would convince them that peeling apples was about as much fun as a kid could have. "Family baking project," I would proclaim. "Let's go get all those apples peeled."

Until they reached the age of reason, they fell for it. After that, I would resort to bribery.

Then, I found the world's greatest invention - the Apple Peeler/Corer/Slicer.

The APCS looks a bit like a piece of medieval medical equipment, but boy, does it work. By shoving the apple onto what resembles a corkscrew and turning a lever, this little goody peels, cores and slices in a matter of seconds. It has made my annual foray into baking almost enjoyable.

So, this morning I set out to bake my famous pie. The APCS did its wonders. Pillsbury provided the crusts (you didn't really think I'd make my own, did you?) I was almost happy as I worked. Steve put on Christmas music and I hummed along. I fell into a little daydream.

Sometimes, when I am in the kitchen, I pretend I am Ina Garten.

You know Ina, right? The Barefoot Contessa? She has a cooking show that is filmed, I think, in her Hamptons kitchen. She buys her ingredients at cute little food boutiques and prepares picnics for the beach. Her husband Jeffrey (who I think may be gay, but Ina doesn't know it) gets to eat all of her products.

Ina's voice is like liquid valium. Just listening to her for half an hour soothes me in a way that, otherwise, could probably only be obtained illegally. I love Ina.

So, pretending to be Ina makes time in the kitchen go faster. It also helps to pretend that the production staff will be cleaning up all of the dirty dishes.

Of course, Ina doesn't usually bake in a pink bathrobe. And she doesn't have 65 pounds of canine eating machine weaving in and out of her legs, waiting for scraps to fall. (Toby does like apple cores, by the way. I just found that out.)

No, Ina doesn't face this stuff. She'd have Jeffrey take the dog for a walk down to the cute little New England town she calls home. But this morning, I did.

So anyway, in my most soothing Ina voice, I ordered Toby out of the kitchen and had him lay down in the family room. He gave me his best broken-hearted dog gaze, but did manage to stay away until I had finished the pie (which was gorgeous, by the way) and set it on the counter while the oven finished heating.

Then, I went to take out the garbage.

Coming back into the kitchen, I was greeted with the sight of Toby, front paws on the counter, fully extended, getting ready to lick the Christmas pie. Luckily, I caught him in time.

Besides, I'm sure 45 minutes in a 350 degree oven will kill most of the dog saliva he left behind, eh?