I bake to tame my inner, sometimes irrepressibly volatile beast. When I’m on the edge of an emotional decline, like when I start stalking an ex on Instagram or trolling the net for Robert Pattinson/FKA Twigs pics, I turn to baking for comfort. It’s like keeping a zen garden, only with more delicious results.

Neither my mom nor my Po-Po baked. The oven was for storing clean pots and dishes. It was as foreign to me as the hand mixer, which I’d use as a pretend space gun.

In the 4th grade, word had spread that the Costco frozen section had pre-made cookie dough. Inspired by bestie’s description of this magical product, my mom and I headed to the grocery store where I mistakenly bought a tub of  cookie dough ice cream instead. After opening the lid, my mom said matter-of-factly, “This is ice cream.” Stubborn and eager to prove her wrong, I convinced her to let me proceed.

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