Most of the time we speed through life like a race car, pushing aside the little things and setting our eyes on our enormous goals. Our brains have been so finely tuned to hurry that when life slows down we want to take it in a death grip and yank it forward again. Patience is an art, and humans suck at it. I am human, so therefore I also suck at it, and still do, but I am better at it after my mom’s birthday six years ago. Some of our experiences stick with us for some reason we might not know yet, and some blow straight out of our heads, just like the warm summer breeze the day I started baking. 

     Birthdays are celebrated lavishly in my house, always with the celebrant's choice of dessert. The other people in the house would rotate who made the dessert, and this year my grandma and I were the ones baking what my mom wanted every single year: strawberry shortcake. To my six year old self, this task came just short of taking over the world. “Why do I have to leave the butter for the biscuits in chunks?” I nervously asked my grandma, who was leveling off a cup of sugar with a butter knife.

     “As the butter melts, it makes the biscuits flaky,” she explained patiently, opening the bag of strawberries. I nodded in understanding. The dough hungrily sucked up the water as I poured it in, making the batter thicker and harder to mix. With effort I yanked the wooden spoon out of the dough and tentatively reached forward to lick it. 

     “No, no, no, don’t do that!” my grandma corrected, thumping over to me and carefully placing the spoon back into the metal bowl. 

     “But it looks so good!” I shouted, throwing my hands up in the air and accidentally splattering dough on the ceiling. 

     “Would you rather eat a handful of dough now or two biscuits later?” Grandma asked gently, pouring the strawberries into a pot. The dough sat there smugly, relinquishing in not being eaten. I narrowed my eyes at the dough, but I knew Grandma was right. The afternoon sunlight spilled through the open window in our kitchen, and a cool summer breeze wafted the smell of sauteing strawberries into my eager nostrils. It made me remember this morning when I had picked those very same strawberries from my garden, full of dirt and juiciness. I had wanted to eat the strawberries too and would have if they had not been encased in dirt. I dragged myself back to the present, where I had rolled and shaped the dough into a rough circle.

     Using a pastry cutter, I sliced the rolled out dough into biscuit shapes. I yearned to take a bite, but I abided by my grandma’s advice and didn’t. My grandma helped me slide them onto cookie trays and into the oven, where they would cook for ten whole minutes! How could I wait that long? My grandma must have noticed how crestfallen I was and asked me to help make the whipped cream. I resignedly grabbed the heavy whipping cream from the fridge and got to work.

     I was so immersed with the smooth, fluffy, whipped cream that I didn’t even notice my grandma taking the biscuits out of the oven, carefully avoiding the steam that rose from the golden pieces of art. Grandma set them down on a wooden cutting board and stepped back to admire our work. Eyes brightening, hands trembling with excitement, I sank my teeth into the soft, flaky biscuits. They were delicious and melted in my mouth like butter on a hot pan. I still wondered what the dough had tasted like, but it never could have tasted as good as this.

     That was my first experience baking, but it definitely wasn’t my last, and through all of them I learned until I didn’t even think about eating any dough ever again. Sometimes, like in baking biscuits, all you have to do is have patience and accept that things can happen in a different order than you had in mind.

-Aileana E.