Last weekend, our son and his wife came to visit, bringing their two small children. We sat around the dining table, happily chatting about everything and nothing. Eventually, the subject got around to the wee ones’ schooling and the expected level of commitment from parents and grandparents in fund-raising events. Including the dreaded Bake Sale.
I had a flashback to the moment when my son, barely finished with his first-grade orientation, rushed through the door and thrust a semi-clean piece of crumpled paper into my hands, announcing an upcoming bake sale. All mothers were expected to contribute. And it needed to be from scratch. And creatively presented. Oh, and it was tomorrow.
I don’t cook. I hate it. I knew by eighth grade that it was not for me, when all my giggling girlfriends were eager for Home Ec class, while I opted for wood shop with Billy Butz (who spent most of the year in detention due to his unfortunate habit of fondling his junk at recess), which shows you how far I was willing to go. Twenty years later, I found myself holding what would be the first of a ridiculous number of flyers over the years, handed out with knowing and superior smiles by the Bake Sale Moms.
These women are tough. And they take their bake sales very seriously. They think nothing of giving you less than 24 hours between the wadded notice and the presentation of your famous Disney princess cookie collection, because their bake-off artwork has been ready since last Tuesday. These women compete fiercely every year for imaginary first place, jockeying for position to determine who can bring in the most beautiful, well-presented, or most complicated recipe. Winners and runner ups are chosen by the self-appointed pack leader by “first to sell,” “most money paid,” or “best presentation.” This hierarchy remains absolute and unwavering until the next bake-off.
There’s no room in this club for women who don’t bake. You’ll never know their secret handshake or be invited to any of their get-togethers, because, well, you don’t know the difference between real vanilla and imitation. You don’t understand why someone would spend $11 on an entire jar of Cardamon when the recipe only calls for 1/8 of a tablespoon. You don’t belong. So you humbly offer up a paper plate of slightly burnt, generic chocolate chip cookies, obviously sliced from a frozen log, totally humiliating your child, bringing in a paltry two bucks from the janitor in a pity sale, and getting yourself permanently banned from the prestigious Bake Sale Moms’ Club.
When my son was in second grade, we were living on Maui, in an uber-cute, plantation-style house, surrounded by old banana trees. Less “Gone with the Wind” and more 140-year-old sharecropper’s cottage, it came with original plumbing and appliances. Quaint, but not without some inconveniences.
One day, he came home from school and announced that I was supposed to bake some cookies for the bake sale that was, oh yeah, tomorrow. Trying not to panic, since I didn’t have a clue how to get started (and those “I make my child his own Christmas tree every year using toilet paper tubes and glitter” moms can be scary), I decided to at least attempt to fit in and make my kid proud.
I discovered we actually had a cookbook with cookie recipes (who knew?), so I sat down to find one that didn’t ask for some weird “cream of tartar” or include a 13-page tutorial at the bottom on how use pointy tubes of frosting to draw animal faces on your cookies because “Wouldn’t that just be, like, adorable??” (For the love of God, who are these women??)
I finally found one that looked simple enough, and I set all the ingredients out on kitchen table, ready to dazzle my young progeny.
Step one: Preheat oven to 350. Hmmm. There were five knobs on the front. When I turned the one that said “Temp,” all I heard was a hissing sound from inside the oven. I may not be Martha in the kitchen, but I was pretty sure ovens were not supposed to hiss. I called a girlfriend, who asked if the pilot light was on. “What the hell is a ‘pilot light?'” I asked. “You have a gas oven,” she explained, “You need to light the pilot light inside the oven to turn it on.” All righty, then. Historically, kitchens and anything flaming have not worked out well for me, but this was for my boy, so I was going in.
I quickly realized I had absolutely no idea where this mysterious pilot light might be, so I flicked on a long, candle-type lighter, opened the oven door, stuck the lighter in and waved it around, hoping it would somehow figure out where to go so I could get chopping on my bragging rights.
The next thing I heard was an extremely loud BANG, immediately followed by a WHOOSH of thick, greasy, black smoke, billowing out of the oven and streaming oily black soot on me, the walls, the table, all my ingredients, and Poi, the mangy (and now seriously pissed) plantation cat that happened to stroll by looking for treats. Well, crap.
Jake was standing in the doorway, doubled over with laughter, with all the glee of a six-year-old whose mother has just completely torched her kitchen for his personal amusement, while he chortled, “Boy, the other mothers aren’t going to believe this. We should take a picture of you, Mom. This is great!!” Awesome. I told him to give me an hour to clean up the mess, take a shower, and hose down the cat. Then we were off to Safeway for some Oreos. Bite me, bake sale.
And now the next generation is bringing home those same damn flyers. Screw it. If those Betty Crocker wannabes don’t want my Oreos, I’m bringing wine. Bet those mothers can’t make that.
Wow. I do bake occasionally but if somebody told me that I HAD to bake something, with one day’s notice, I would go for the oreos too. Just to make a point.
BTW I do love the Nestle’s Tollhouse cookie dough logs, they would be pretty hard to tell from homemade!
Ooh, thanks for the tip, Bonnie! By the time we have grandkids, we’ve earned the right to use cookie dough logs! :)
Sharing and yet could not resist saying I’m deep in the thick of it and they terrify terrify me! ????
Thanks for sharing, Carla! Oh my, you’re dealing with it now? Sending hugs and prayers. :)
I hear you. You can imagine how many bake sales, etc. we have been involved with 6 children. On and on and on. No more I am retired, retired, retired and too old to make cookies, as far as I am concerned.
Peggy, six kids?? You deserve a medal AND time off! After retirement, it’s Oreos, baby! :)
Oh my gosh, stopping by here always my day. What a hoot. You are seriously a woman after my own heart. Oreos from Safeway are just fine in my book. Make it double stuff, and call it good. your Billy reminds me of a Billy in my youth–Billy Shilling. He was a real stinker.
Thanks, Julie! We all have a “Billy,” don’t we? :)
I am laughing as usual and with you on ‘Bite Me’ Bake Sale Moms, Auction Moms, FundRaiser Moms,and Field Trip Moms!When I was 14 I started babysitting a 3 year old.The parents asked if I would go to CapeCod for week with them as ‘Mother’s Helper’. The cottage had a gas stove and just like you it did not go well for the Mom. We ate out every meal every day!
Thanks, Haralee! “Mother’s Helper”? Wow, I haven’t heard that for a long time. Brings back a few more “natural disasters” from my youth! Oops… :)
Stumbled this for you, funny stuff :).
Thanks, Gary!!
Pretty sure I WAS that awesome, talented, bake sale mom. (If my daughter asks). AHh aha ahaahah aa Or not. Still don’t like to cook though I will bake once in awhile. I always whipped out the “someone has to BUY the baked goods, not bake them” line. Worked for me.
Kymberly, I wish I had thought of that! “Well, SOMEBODY has to be the buyer. We can’t all be the bakers.” Perfect! :)
One year, I went to the bake sale and bought the oatmeal cookies that I had made from scratch – they must not have passed the attractively packaged test (no school name done in school colors in script!) so they weren’t priced very high. They were quickly consumed by my three children who actually did have pretty high cookie standards!
Love that, Karlene! We sometimes need to remind these moms that the cookies will often be eaten by CHILDREN, who don’t care if they’re shaped like Star Wars characters! :)
Thanks again for a wonderful laugh. Always hated baking, but for the girls’ school bake sales I perfected banana chocolate chip muffins and heaven help anyone who asked for anything different. All the teachers knew exactly what was showing up with my kids.
Thank you, Ryma! I’m with you. I make ONE dessert (not cookies), and if you want me to bring a dish to your event, it will be that one. No negotiating. :)
My talent and patience for baking is sorely limited so I definitely get this. I’d much rather be the plastic fork mom. :D
Lisa, if you bring that plastic knives, I’ll bring the sporks! :)
Or you could just hack the oreos—get some colorful frosting, put it on the top with some sprinkles and ta-da!!
jodie
http://www.jtouchofstyle.com
Jodie, where was this great advice when my son was young?? :) That’s okay. My grandkids will think I ROCK. Thanks! :)
I personally think the wine would bring in the most money
Thank you, Peggy! Geez, if it’s a FUNDRAISER, why do they care what you sell to bring in funds?? I bet the wine table would have a line out the door! :)
I never “got” baking–just one more reason why it’s probably a good thing I never had children. Wine appreciation and consumption, however, well, step aside you Martha Stewart wannabes. You’re going down…
I hear you, Roxanne! I never got it either, and I only had one child’s bake sales to deal with. Women with 3+ kids? Do they all just stay home and decorate cookies all day? I’m going to need more wine… :)
That’s hilarious! I hate cooking too and I not cooking for another bake sale. I’ll be shopping the local bakery!
I’m with you, Rena! The local bakery can do a waaaay better job than I can, and so it costs me a few bucks. Ingredients for the designer DIY desserts aren’t much cheaper! Think of all the stress I can let go of. Just sipping my wine while the bakery frosts my cookies to look like little farm animals. Love it! :)
I was like you in high school, Vikki! I HATED cooking class. Unfortunately, girls in our high school in the 60’s weren’t allowed to take woodworking, which i would have loved. They only passed me in cooking if i promised not to take it the next year. No problem! I can’t say i ever grew any fonder of cooking. My hubby does most of cooking even now. For my kids bake sales, i always offered to help buy supplies, like paper plates and plastic wrap. Saved me a lot of grief. Then we’d go to the bake sale and buy up lots of those home-baked goodies for ourselves, lol.
I like the way you think, Linda! I was occasionally their best customer. Just because I don’t like to cook, doesn’t mean I don’t like to eat! :)
Another funny, laughable story with moments that find me thinking “I get it, I know just where she’s coming from”! Thank you Vikki!
My pleasure, Teresa! Thanks for your support and laughter! :)
Those bake sale mama’s still scare me whenever I go to vote. They position that table right next to the exit. I don’t know who I want to run from more them or the people with all their “vote for” signs.
I agree, Jennifer! So now I have to vote AND buy cookies at the polls? They’ll probably be shaped like little flags, with all 50 tiny stars! :)
The revenge of the bake sale! Bake sale moms scare me too! Glad you house and kitty survived to tell the tale!
Me too, Rosemond! I don’t even have to deal with them anymore, and they still intimidate me. Poor Poi never set foot in our kitchen again. :)
Ah you ladies should all move to France. Here Schools don’t do fund raising, everything is paid for through our taxes. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad.
In kindergarten and primary school Mum’s would bake a cake for their child’s birthday. I know I did my share for my kids. But then suddenly, about 15 years ago or so, that was not allowed any more. I suppose Education board was worried about bad ingredients that might get the kids sick, so now you need to buy a cake.
Thanks for the post, Vikki. You always make me laugh. Much appreciated.
My pleasure, Miss Bougie! Move to France? What a fabulous idea! Although I’m not sure Hubs will understand that we need to move to France so I don’t have to bake cookies for my son, who’s 27 with two kids of his own. Damn… :)
The bake sale Mom’s are only outdone by the PTA Mom’s. Thankfully I was culled from the bake sale herd quickly when they saw my meager capabilities. I tried the PTA a few times and was astounded at how serious (and humorless) these women were! That was the end of my volunteering. I tried.
Cookies are bad for your heart so who needs cookies…and wine tastes better anyway.
I totally recognise what you’re on about here. As a bloke, it didn’t impact on me directly but I did observe the pack mentality of the schoolyard mums, all jockeying for position.
In some areas, NO homemade treats are allowed because of children’s severe peanut allergies. Any food brought in for general consumption (birthday cupcakes) MUST clearly be store bought in the original, unopened packaging.
This is a general win, all-around, don’t you think? :)