Baking is one of those activities I find pleasurable and almost therapeutic in its way. It’s something that you need to have an urge, a passion to do. See cooking, while one may enjoy it, is something essential. You have to eat, you have to feed the family (however it is constructed), you have to feed those people you’ve invited round for dinner. But baking is different. It’s unnecessary. Extra. (You know, unless you’re a baker by trade I suppose. But I’m talking run of the mill home baking.) This means whatever you bake is made just because; it’s made with love in it since you felt the urge to pore over the cookbooks, pull out the flour and sugar and measuring cups, heat up the oven and create. It’s this act of creation that I find most satisfying. The way you pull whatever it is out of the oven, take a bite and say yes, I made that. And it tastes good. Plus, people are always impressed when you appear with something scrummy and they discover you cooked it yourself (even if it’s just from a packet — my easy way out).