As I stood in my kitchen this morning, up to the elbows in fondant, one thought grabbed me and attempted to shake a wee bit of sense into my head. “Why the hell do I do these things to myself?” Who in their right mind always has to prove themselves worthy, over and over and over? Oh yeah, me. I know that this compulsion of mine stems from my relationship with my dad and yet its really all about me. Not him, me. You know how folks use “it’s complicated” to explain their relationships? Yeah, that’s me and my dad. I love him, really I do. Or I should say I love the bits and pieces of moments of my life that connect with him at his best. That Dad, at those moments? I love him to pieces. All those other bits and pieces though, those times when he was harsh and judgmental and never proud of me, they sometimes feel as if they just might end up killing me bit by bit.
So there I am, mixing up my first batch of fondant ever and this image of footsteps in the snow suddenly fills my mind’s eye. It is a white dough in a white bowl, sprinkled with white confectioner’s sugar. All that white, looking like snow.