Mia loves to bake. Cookies, cakes, brownies, most especially cupcakes. Her ideal is to bake something chocolate that she can then decorate with sprinkles. And so, we bake. Sugar cookies, gingerbread men, shitty cupcakes from a box, decent brownies also from a box, etc. I hate it.
Mia wants to do all the measuring and pouring, which means there is going to be flour or shitty cupcake mix all over my kitchen, and I spend the whole time trying to keep her fingers out of the mixer blades and the raw egg out of her mouth and her head out of the oven. Every couple of weeks I brace myself and embark on another kitchen adventure, because that is the kind of fabulous selfless mom that I am, but I dread it every time.
Yesterday though, I found the perfect solution. You know those peanut butter cookies with Hershey's kisses on top? Well, unwrapping four dozen pieces of chocolate is an excellent way to keep a toddler busy while you do all of the non-toddler-appropriate prep work. Brilliant! Well, except for the part where I ate an entire dozen cookies between taking them out of the oven and getting them boxed up for "later." Dude! Those things are small! A dozen is, like, no more than eight regular sized cookies. Totally.
(BTW, I live on candy and cookies and ice cream and have lost two pounds in the past two weeks. God I love nursing.)