Acting as a proxy (it was a favor, really) for Sir Claus himself, I just bought my daughter an Easy Bake Oven. Did she ask for it? No. Does she know what it is? No. Have I thus far succeeded at keeping Amelia relatively shielded from the onslaught of virulent commercials such that she remains blissfully ignorant as to the unending plastic inventory within a standard issue Toys ‘R’ Us franchise? Pretty much.
So why the kitsch purchase? I could say that I think she’ll love it (true), or that she concocts recipes all her own and delights in anything involving sugar (also true), or that I hope it will serve as a tool to foster increased independence in this all too complicated and emotional seventh year of life (yet again, true).
But in the interest of coming clean, I will confess that the real reason I bought it is because I always wanted a sleek, over-packaged, relentlessly girly Easy Bake Oven myself. And now that I control the family purse strings this holiday season, by God, the time has come.
My mother was way too much of a hippie to believe in plastic knock-offs. She lives by the code of necessity, and to her credit, a mini light bulb-fueled version of the real deal is hardly a must-have in an otherwise functional household. Thirty years ago, the Easy Bake Oven also carried a far heavier load of political subtext. I was born in 1975 to a mother running as quickly away from 1950s America as her little legs would carry her. She raised with me with more accompanying guidance from Mother Nature than from her own mother. We certainly baked together quite a bit and I, in turn, learned to love the dented metal measuring cups and hand thrown pots she used to store our flour and sugar. I devoured unending portions of homemade granola and zucchini bread in my young life and they are staples of my diet today. For that, I am grateful and healthy.
Amelia and I baked the pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. We measured, stirred, chatted, and laughed together. Strife arose when it came time to pour the batter out of the ridiculously heavy glass bowl into the crust (Mommy’s job, not Amelia’s) and when we delivered it into the oven (ditto). Amelia seemed generally pleased with our time together and giddy over the gloriously tanned and aromatic creation. The next day she lovingly served dessert around the table. Then she sat, sighed audibly, and picked up her fork. After hoisting a minute portion of orange goo and whipped cream into her mouth, she grimaced and announced she was done.
My kid eats her vegetables and loves her folks. She listens to her teachers and respects her peers. But she doesn’t like pumpkin pie—no matter the fact that she made it with her mom in a warm kitchen on a cool afternoon with the promise of a Thanksgiving feast as her muse.
I was that kid too. I did not live a plastic, purple life and neither does Amelia. But I so badly wanted to visit that world sometimes—many times, actually—when I was her age. My mom never granted me the passport and ironically I am tempted to repeat that tactic. Thankfully for Amelia, I am considerably more tempted by the Easy Bake Oven. Something tells me that the dessert plates around our family table on Christmas evening will be remarkably emptier and that the only one grimacing after forcing down a bite of choco-sparkle-cake will be me.
Kate Green Tripp is a journalist, social justice advocate, and aspiring yoga teacher. In 2005, she opted out of the traditional work sphere to launch the epic journey of raising her three children. Kate lives, writes, and plays in Capitola, California. Read more of her writing on her blog.
Photo credit mia3mom/Flickr
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