Friends frequently ask if they can hang out in my kitchen. Save for a few fortunate souls, who inevitably lay victim to copious amounts of wine, a veritable library of my senseless stories and a light dusting of confectioner’s sugar, it doesn’t happen enough. You want to know what it looks like when I strap on the apron and the oven gets hot?
This. Every time.
Shall we bake? Let’s bake.