I have no idea why this idea occurs to me every time. I don't have any happy memories of baking with my mother. Mainly she would scream at me that I was sifting the flour wrong, or sigh about the mess, and generally the whole thing was a stressful experience. By the age of about 10, I realised the most sensible option was to read a Sweet Valley High book in my room and come down when things smelt nice for taste testing. It was an effective strategy.
So today I decided that as I don't want to have to go out anywhere due to midnight wakings because of a certain toddler climbing into my bed and snoring in my ear for a few hours, we would bake. Carrot cake muffins and welsh griddle cakes, both Weight Watchers recipes so I can feel a bit less guilty.
No more than ten seconds in and DS1 has dropped a bag of flour and DS2 is proceeding to try and spoon it back into the bag. I managed to bite my tongue the first time round. I set DS1 the challenge of grating the carrots, but that swiftly proved to be "too hard" (i.e. takes a bit more effort than waving a spoon at the sugar) and whining ensued, so I took that over. More flour spillage.
"Put the bowl on the floor and then sift the flour into the bowl DS1."
"Okay Mummy."
"NO! Not like that!! You're doing it wrong!!"
Eeek. The metamorphosis into my mother is clearly almost complete.
An hour, another bag of flour, several eggs and a stack of washing up as tall as I am later, we have the muffins. They're... interesting looking. They taste OK though. DS2 ate half of one and then wandered off. Thankfully they freeze well apparently, so ten of them are currently wedged between low fat sausages and a weight watchers garlic baguette.
The welsh griddle cakes are more of a success, because the kids walked away as soon as I started singing about us all doing the washing up together, so I got to do those myself. In fact, they're so tasty I've had to put them in a tupperware box on top of a cupboard so I don't scoff the lot...
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