Aneeda Baker

I am very susceptible to suggestion.

Once I see something, I have a tendency to glom onto it and not let go until I have either obtained, mastered, or exhausted it.  For two solid weeks I have been whipping my hair back and forth thanks to Willow Smith.  When I saw Iron Man, I flew around the hallways at school "shooting" students with imaginary blasters.

And anything Ina Garten makes, I must make as soon as possible.

I can roast a chicken with the volume turned up.  I can whip up a fabulous pavlova.  I can even make an elegantly simple floral arrangement grouping like colored flowers of varying sizes suitable for the entire gay population of the Hamptons.

But for some reason, I cannot bake.

I have tried to make Ina's friggin Gingerbread Cupcakes with Orange Frosting, and each time they turned out like delicious little undigestible hockey pucks guaranteed to stove you up for at least a three days.   I have used the paddle attachment as the Ina has instructed.  I have used an electric mixer. I have even mixed the entire concoction by hand to ensure I don't over mix the damn things.  And still, tiny little ginger scented doorstops.

Gastroterrorism in cupcake form.

I have decided that the improviser in me refuses to bow to the rigid constraints of the baker's regime and have abandoned all hope of ever winning the dessert round on Chopped.

If you have any tips on how to make these things edible, I would love to hear 'em.

Please note that I would never besmirch the name of Ina Garten and take full responsibility for my failure.  I am not worthy.


But I would love to live in her barn.