Pesonal Narrative Essay about Baking

Baking has always been something my momand I do together. Looking back, I can see how patient she always was with me in the kitchen. My small hands would take forever to mix the batter, and I always wanted to be held up so I could see the over the countertop. As I got older, my mom would teach me more and more about baking. I learned to separate eggs using the shell, how to make sure a cake was cooked through, and how to frost a perfect cupcake. Baking had become more than something my mother and I did together: it had become a part of me.

Eventually, I was able to do lots of the baking myself, and I was determined to show her that I had no need for her assistance anymore. The truth was, she had taught me so well, that I was and still am perfectly capable of baking on my own. In fact, I'm pretty good at it. However, I quickly learned just how much I really needed her. 

Because of my love for baking and an upcoming school field trip to Washington DC, I decided that I would bake and sell treats to pay for the trip. Now, those who know me know that I am both extremely optimistic and even more forgetful. This unfortunate combination led to me completely panicking one morning when I received a call from a woman who had ordered cupcakes from me. The phone rang, and a voice asked, "You can still deliver the cupcakes today right? Three dozens carrot cake with cream cheese frosting by 11:30 like we discussed?" My heart sank. It was already 10:00 and cupcakes were the furthest thing from my mind. If not for the phone call, I would have forgotten them completely. Of course I was determined to fill the order though, so I replied with a cheery, "Of course! I'll have them decorated and ready!" I spent the next hour baking like a madwoman and begging my brother to fetch me ingredients from the store. I finally got the cupcakes into the oven, but I knew I couldn't possibly decorate them in time. Under stress and covered head to toe in flour, I sat on the floor of our kitchen and cried. Baking was supposed to be something that I loved, but now it was the last thing I wanted to do. As I sat there, I felt my mother's hand touch my shoulder and then lift me from the floor. My mom, whose help I had rejected in the past because I wanted to prove that I could bake by myself, stood there wearing her apron, ready to help me. Together, we were able to complete the order and get it delivered just a few minutes before the deadline.

The whole event, while it felt horrible at the moment, reminded me of why I fell in love with baking in the first place. I love it because it's something that I do with my mother. The little girl who was determined to prove that she was independent now cherishes her mother's presence. I may love frosting cupcakes and getting souffle to rise just perfectly, but more than that, I love spending time in the kitchen with my mom.