Flour, butter, and lots of sugar,
castor, demerera, and icing,
the reassuring dependability,
that cakes will be sweet,
breads will rise,
and cookies will brown.
Adorned with beads of sweat,
battling an over-sized glass bowl,
ladle held tight, in that kitchen,
the luscious semblance of control,
fleeting, yet firm.
Non-surgical syringes with myriad fittings,
performing plastic surgery on imperfections,
pumping out icing, make-believe moment,
that lines of worry, however many,
smooth them out, one at a time.
When all the stirring and mixing is done,
the number game, celsius and minute.
till it's just done, an aromatic reminder, maybe,
to do what you can, and wait with time,
for life, to happen, to just get done.