Don't Drink Bees

My friend set me up on a blind date with her friend Mr. Baker. She said he had a lot of dough. That made my interest rise. It’s not that I knead a man with bread. It would just be nice if two people brought home the baking and fried dough up in the pan.

The date began very promisingly. He handed me flours.

“Wheat,” I said. “I oat to put these in water. I’ll only be scone a minute. Make yourself at home.”

“Is that a bagel?” he called out in alarm.

“Yeast,” I called back. “My little pooch, Pinwheel. He’s very clever. Ask him to turnover.”

“I doughnut think so,” he said. “I’m allergic. I need to get out of here before I cream puff up.”

“We better not whisk it,” I said. We beat a quick retreat from the rolling Pin.

Mr. Baker led me to his Rolls Royce, an impressive bran of automobile. “Are you ready for an amazing meal at that new Danish restaurant?” he asked.

“I’m stoving,” I said, “but will we be able to get a tablespoon? They usually have a long wait.”

“Muffin to worry about,” he told me. “I’ve got a reservation, Sugar. For an hour at 450.”

“How will we fritter away the timer until then?” I asked.

“Why don’t you popover here and find out,” he suggested, patting the seat beside him.

I could feel my temperature rising. Mr. Baker was sweet and he definitely had hot-crossed buns. But I wasn’t quick bread.

He could see I was waffling. “Let’s have some drinks in the cookie bar,” he said, “until dinner roll time.” He started the car. I noticed it had a lot of torte.

“I’ll have a scotch and baking soda,” I purred.

And I did while Mr. Baker ordered himself a mixer-ed drink. After a few shots, he proposed a toast. “To a cup of good eggs.”

I snickerdoodled.

“Think you can do batter?” he asked.

“Piece of cake,” I said. “To a gingerbread man who is making my blood broil. You must be my friend’s biscuit secret. I cake believe how you are measuring cup to my expectations. They are usually too high and I end up with egg white on my face. But this time, I can see a bended knee and an engagement tea ring in my future.”

I realized suddenly I had said too much. I was afraid his feelings toward me would begin frosting up. “Um, maybe I should go baking powder my nose.” I headed for the restroom.

He stopped me. I was afraid this was the beginning of our first spatula.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This isn’t the way you should have fondant about my fluffy feelings. It’s just that I had too much to drink.”

He whipped a box out of his pocket with gnache.

This was quite a twist!

“You’re not dumpling me?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I immediately knew you were different from all the crullers. What do you say, Kitchen? Do you oven me?”

“Yeast!” I sang out. “When I’m this happy, icing!”

“So, you don’t think this is a pastry decision? I know it’s only been a short bread time.” He eyed me cautiously.

“No, my loaf.” I took his hand. “This is butter than the time I rolled a Baker’s Dozen in Vegas!”

“Then, let’s tie the knot!” he braid.

We beat a path for the justice of the pies. And that’s how I stopped scraping the bottom of the dating bowl, became Mrs. Sugar Baker, and joined the upper crust.