Joy the Baker

There are wildfires raging all over Southern California and although I don’t live in the danger zone, the thick air and daunting skies make the fires impossible to ignore.

Driving around at dusk tonight, listening to the fire coverage on my car radio, I remembered that between the ages of about seven and eleven I would proudly proclaim that I wanted to be a firefighter to any adult that would ask.

It’s funny the reasons you choose to declare your future profession when you’re a child.  See,  I don’t particularly like fire, or being hot, or tall ladders or carrying heavy things.  I’m not much of a hero.  I don’t have that life saving gene inside me, aside from not killing the cricket that was in my kitchen last night.

My seven year old brain wanted to be a firefighter for several unheroic reasons: I liked (loved!) how awesomely clean and shiny fire trucks were.  I also really liked color and something about the red truck and the yellow suits and the black and white Dalmatian was totally exciting.  This is going to sound totally weird, but I used to love to do pull ups (I know, nutty), and my child brain somehow connected the ability to do pull ups with the ability to save lives and fight fire.

So I wanted to do pull ups and be a firefighter, until I wanted to own a zoo and be a vet, until I wanted to be a brooding writer, until I wanted to be a lady baker.  Phew… figuring out that stuff is nearly exhausting, and I’m not even done dreaming yet.

How about some squash?

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