Some days I feel like Julia Child. Like I could conquer any and every recipe put before me – leave them in French, je vais conquérir! Every loaf of bread rises perfectly, every cake bakes evenly. I am Hestia incarnate, and croissants offer themselves as sacrifices to my hearth. These days are generally followed immediately by days when I feel like Lucy from the classic show “I Love Lucy,” and I’m lucky not to burn toast. Baking has a remarkable ability to keep a person humble. Some days it genuinely is your fault a recipe fails – oh it says 1/2 teaspoon not 1/2 cup, silly me. Some days there is nothing you can do, not enough croissants to sacrifice, to make up for the humidity spike that causes all those croissants to fail miserably in their attempt to proof. Patience, effort, ingredients wasted on a sub par pastry. And so goes life. We can’t spend too much time crying over spilled milk or overly browned butter, even though there are days when all I want to do is sit in the puddle of batter on the floor and cry. Where does this get me? Nowhere. So I dust off the flour and start again.