Dear Max

I’m not sure how or why it happened, but you hate my Kenwood Chef. There is something about it that freaks you out, makes you cry, and causes you to vomit from anxiety. I can’t explain it. I’ve only started baking regularly recently, and it’s not like you’ve had an accident or other run-in with it (or a flopped cake).

I know to do my baking when you’re not home, and yesterday you outsmarted me – I simply lined up the baking ingredients and you knew. I hadn’t even touched the Kenwood Chef (now 30 years old, and passed down by your granny) and you hollered and were genuinely upset. Sisi managed to distract you, you fell asleep from exhaustion, and I baked some kick-ass chocolate chip-peanut butter biscuits.

When I got home last night, you refused to come back to the house, happy in Sisi’s cottage where you read, played and interacted with your iPad. You did not want to come home, assumedly shit scared about coming back to the house with that machine which shall not be named. Not even the lure of choc chip-peanut butter biscuits could shift you.

Dude, please come home! Come back to your coop soon, to the place where your mother bird waits. She who birthed you (thanks to the help of Pethidine and spinal block), who fed you (not biscuits, I might add) and who wants you back in the nest. I promise not to lay out baking ingredients in front of you. Nor enter you into Masterchef one day.

Love you,

Mom

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