For the last six months I’ve been paying for my morning Mysore-style yoga classes with baking. It’s the perfect arrangement. It probably doesn’t save me any money, but it does keep me from being lazy in the kitchen (which ensures I have at least two things to blog about each week!) My yoga teacher enjoys whatever I bring (at least he tells me he does), and the manfriend is happy because there’s almost always some fresh baking in the house.
I bought a bunch of carrots thinking I needed them for a veggie pot pie. When I got home and checked the recipe, I realized I didn’t need them. While I probably could have added them anyway, I decided to make a vegan carrot cake to take to yoga.
Then over the weekend, I got the following email from my yoga teacher:
“I took the bus downtown after practice on my way to the ferry and forgot the carrot cake on the bus. When I realized, I ran after the bus for blocks chasing it down! I had to chase it to its terminus and when I found it there was no bus driver around. I waited until I had to run for my next bus to the ferry, and then I broke into the bus! I could see the little bag through the window; I could not leave it sitting there! I just pushed on the doors and they opened right up. I grabbed the carrot cake and ran! It was so funny! I felt like a teenager up to no good.”
Hearing stories like that is one of the many reasons I love to bake and cook. Reading that email made me laugh, but it also made me re-appreciate how food brings us together – from cooking for the manfriend while he hangs out on the other side of the bar with a glass of wine, to a family potluck dinner, to tasting new cuisines with new friends while traveling.
And, of course, to causing my yoga teacher to commit semi-illegal acts to get carrot cake.