90 degrees is not for baking?

I feel slightly pathetic, because I am camped out at my parents house, throwing my independence to the wind, and lounging in their air-conditioned palace… I have a cocktail in hand, a strawberry rhubarb crisp in the oven, I just finished grilling steak to put on top of my salad and I’ve got a load of laundry in the washer. Life is pretty good, minus the fact that I’m a grown-up lured back into the nest with the promise of a consistent temperature, and laundry facilities.

This is not my first summer in Oregon, but it is my first summer in this particular apartment. For the past two summer’s I lived in a second story loft, and the delicious vaulted ceilings saved me from the oppressive heat. Yes, it was warm, but the ceiling fans worked wonders, and the heat stayed at the ceiling, leaving the evenings cool for sleeping.

This year, I am living in an upstairs apartment built for a hobit. The ceilings are low and slanted, there are no fans, and the front porch is made of tin, which reflects heat directly through my windows. The only place to escape the heat is in my stairwell. It is such a fake out when I walk in the front door and feel a rush of cool air. This lasts approximately 3.5 seconds until I start climbing the stairs and am embraced in the warm stagnant air. Thankfully, I have window fans, and it does tend to cool off around 3:00AM, but spending the afternoons and evenings in my upstairs oven is less than pleasant.

For some unfortunate reason, I’m always inspired to bake when it gets hot. Why is this? Why would I want to intentionally turn on the oven and add to the misery? No one knows. Regardless, I tend to give into the urge, using my parents kitchen. The counter-space is bountiful, the air-conditioning feels luxurious, and I have a bottle of gin stashed in the pantry. Turn on the grill, get out the lime, put up my feet (while the things are in the oven of course), and bask in the cool cool air.