I've come to realize it's not good for me, but I've been a baker. For my daughter's first birthday I made individual triple-layer pink heart-shaped petits fours with the traditional layer of marzipan, but it brought me to Jesus. I was on the floor weeping, covered in powdered sugar, banging my fists against the floor boards mumbling the word fondant.
Perfectionism is behind my baking problem. There has got to be a Platonic form of croissants. I speak for myself, of course, there are many of you who whisk with abandon, and cute little aprons, and are carefree when it comes to this kind of creation. But I get bloodhound crazy in the kitchen around a preheated 350 degree oven. I want my gingerbread house to look exactly like my grandparents old boathouse on the Miles River of the Chesapeake Bay.
I have a vision of what might be possible with marzipan. I'm always so close, so close; I'm on the board, but never hit the inner circle of the bulls eye. I was all angst about the crumb of my cake, so I have given it up in favor of mental health, and another hobby which I cannot be perfectionistic about and that's making chocolate truffles. They're supposed to look like little clods of dirt and happily, this I can do with my eyes closed.