Baked

11:00 a.m., Saturday

I've been in one of those moods lately. Baked.

Yeah, I know that "baked" has a somewhat unsavory slang meaning now (dating from 1975, says Merriam-Webster): slang:  under the influence of a drug and especially marijuana :  stoned

But that ain't what I'm talkin' about, Yo.

I mean, in the past week or so I've been in a kind of Baking Frenzy. I need to bake something. So just this week--since last Sunday--I've baked a full batch of bread (a round loaf, some rolls), two sets of scones (one for Joyce: ginger-walnut; one for me: maple-pecan).

And in a few minutes--as soon as I quit wasting my time sitting here typing--I'm going to go into the kitchen and prepare a batch of baguettes. We're having spaghetti tonight, you know, and so you gotta have fresh baguettes for that, right?

I started baking bread back in the late 1960s when we were first married, and I discovered (a) we had no money (teacher's salary), (b) baking bread was cheaper than buying it, (c) home-baked bread tasted, well, a lot better than store-bought, and (d) baking was ... fun.

But now it's more than fun; it's necessary.

And I'm not sure why.

Could it be as simple as this: Because as long as I can do it, I'm alive? (In every sense.)

Sounds good ... let's go with it.

(Pic shows last week's bread-baking.)