Baking has always been her favorite thing in the world.
When I was little, my mom worked double shifts at the hospital, so my brother Daniel and I spent most of our afternoons at Grandma’s house. A little yellow bungalow on Pine Street with a porch swing and a lemon tree in the backyard.
Every afternoon, she’d be baking something. Cinnamon rolls. Peach cobbler. Pound cake. Chocolate chip cookies the size of your hand. Her kitchen was always warm and always smelled like sugar.
Ezoic
She’d stand me on a wooden step stool next to the counter and tie one of her aprons around my waist. It was so big it went around me twice.
“Okay, Jenna,” she’d say. “Today you’re my assistant baker. What’s the first rule?”
“Wash your hands.”
“And the second rule?”
“Measure twice, pour once.”
“And the most important rule?”
