I cradled the cordless phone between my right ear and shoulder as I added vanilla and mint extract to a mixing bowl with blended butter and sugar. I was making mint chocolate cookies.

�The movies? In an hour?� I said to my friend Liz on the other end. �I�m in the middle of baking. You guys go without me.�

�You sure?� she asked.

�Of course! Have fun!�

When I got off the phone, I was relieved. Finally, I could concentrate. The other sixteen-year olds could go to the movies. I wanted to bake. The magazine cutout of the recipe was within arm�s reach, but I didn�t need it. I had made this recipe many times before. I watched little clouds of the dry ingredients rise from the bowl as the electric stand mixer worked them into the wet ingredients. The whir of the mixer became slower and slower as the dough got thicker. I stopped the mixer. I was at my favorite part of the preparation process: forming the cookies. The dough squished between my fingers as I grabbed chunks of it and shaped them into little spheres between the palms of my hands.

I�m not musically or artistically gifted, but I feel as if I am when baking. The whir of the electric mixer is my song and cookie dough is my sculpting clay. I am a creator.

I love sweets. My grandparents, my dad�s parents who used to live with us, called me Cookie Monster when I was young because I always wanted chocolate chip cookies and milk for my afternoon snacks. My grandma occasionally made cake from the box and starting at the age of five, I helped her so I could eat the batter and the finished cake. One day she made chocolate chip cookies from scratch, and I realized they tasted so much better than the store-bought ones. They were softer and still warm so that the centers of the chocolate chips were gooey.

I wanted to eat more and more homemade goods because they tasted better. If the real Cookie Monster had to choose between homemade and store-bought cookies and couldn�t have both, I�m sure he�d choose the homemade ones. In order to be able to eat as many baked goods as I wanted, I became the initiator and the leader in projects around the age of seven, not just the helper. That way, I didn�t have to constantly ask my grandma to make things for me. I just needed someone to preheat the oven. I bought cookbooks for myself at school book fairs.

Mistakes happened occasionally, such as the time a batch of cocoa applesauce muffins tasted bitter and sour because I put half a cup of baking soda instead of half a teaspoon as the cookbook prescribed. Most of the time, my creations came out fine.

When I was ten, my Aunt Jeannie, my dad�s younger sister who also used to live with us, brought her fianc� to our New York home for dinner one night. My grandma was busy making dinner, but I wanted to do something special, too. I baked a chocolate cake from the box, spread store bought chocolate frosting over it, and decorated the cake with rainbow sprinkles.

Everyone was full by the time I brought out the cake, on a silver tray with a white paper doily, at the end of the dinner. My family took small slices of the cake. I was disappointed, but I cut myself a big piece. When my grandma mentioned I had made the cake, Jack, Aunt Jeanine�s fianc�, asked me to cut him a big slice, too. Everyone else ate the cake silently. I didn�t know what their silence meant. Jack told me, several times between mouthfuls, that it was good.

A few days after the dinner, he sent a bouquet of red roses with ferns and sprigs of baby�s breath to our house, for the whole family. The card that accompanied the flowers read:

I didn�t care about the flowers. I read the card over and over, and smiled every time I went over the words, especially the last two. As the youngest person in the family, I was always taken care of, not the person taking care of someone else. When my parents weren�t around, my grandparents were there. If they weren�t there, my older brother was. I never went home to an empty house after school. Someone was always home, and there was always a snack waiting for me on the table. I never felt useful. The only things I took care of were dolls. Repeatedly lifting a plastic cake to a doll�s mouth didn�t bring me as much satisfaction as cutting my soon-to-be Uncle Jack a big piece of chocolate cake. I wasn�t needed to help take care of him, as my grandma prepared a big dinner, but at least I could bring him pleasure with my dessert.

After the dinner with Uncle Jack, I began following more complicated recipes. When I was thirteen, I stopped making cakes or brownies from the box�they had to be from scratch. I made tiramisu, Irish soda bread, caramel cheesecake, among other things. My mom asked me to bake for her annual holiday office potluck when I was in high school, which made me feel useful. The year I was seventeen, I baked raspberry jam tarts for the event. She came home from the party smiling.

�Guess what was the most popular thing at the party.�

�I don�t know. What?� I said.

�Your tarts! They were literally fighting for it, and picking at every crumb!�

The image of my mom�s co-workers hovering over my tarts made me feel like I could be more than �Su�s little daughter,� as her colleagues had come to see me over the years.

My initial motivation for baking�so I could eat sweets that tasted better than what I could buy at the stores�was a little selfish, but I had discovered a new and better motivation along the way. Baking was a way I brought pleasure to people.

The first time I baked for my current boyfriend, he hesitantly took the first mint chocolate cookie and bit into it. He chewed, and quickly took another bite. Then he took another cookie. And another. He offered me one, but I shook my head. Watching him eat was enough for me.

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