My favorite Christmas/Hanukkah presents as a child were Simon, a yellow Huffy dirt bike, Bulfinch’s Mythology, and my E-Z Bake Oven.

My cousins and I had Simon wars in the living room of their little house on Saticoy Street in Van Nuys, California during many rainy winters.

I learned how to ride a bike - and crashed into several Cypress trees but recovered miraculously unscathed - on my yellow Huffy dirt bike when we lived by the (now Qualcomm) Stadium when I was a kid, on Sunday afternoons when I could hear people cheering for former San Diego Chargers Dan Fouts and Kellen Winslow (Sr.) under Coach Don Coryell.

My fifth grade teacher Mr. Epler, a stoic, myopic man who always wore the same white-ish, short-sleeved button-down shirt with an ink stain on the right pocket insisted that I didn’t read the entire Bulfinch’s Mythology I did a book report on. I read most of it, my parents read me some, but it was devoured cover to cover. Even as a fifth grader I was enraged at the academic injustice of Mr. Epler; I went beyond Judy Blume and Island of the Blue Dolphins (both of which I loved) and ventured into classic literature and mythology, unafraid, and hungry for history, worldly knowledge, and intrigue. But all the teacher cared about was the overly ambitious and seemingly unrealistic page count he didn’t believe I was capable of conquering, and gave me my first bad grade. Teachers shouldn’t squash children’s natural interests, they should nurture them. And teachers should never, under any circumstances, tell a child (in any direct or indirect way) that they aren’t capable of something. Anything.

I still have Bulfinch’s Mythology. The pages are yellowed, some of the Index pages have been torn out by my kids. But I reference that book the way doctors look to their PDR’s, and I have since Christmas of 1981; to read up on Prince Hector of Troy, Andromeda, or Glastonbury Tor. In fact, I still have pages bookmarked with 27 year old red and gold holiday ribbon. Bulfinch’s Mythology was the first place where I discovered that mystery, fable, fact and imagination can all share the same world. I still live in it.
 
But my favorite present of all was my E-Z Bake Oven. I unwrapped it in that house by the Stadium Christmas Day while my father yelled at the referees in some football game, while my Mom “slaved away” in the kitchen, and I had it set up - though I hated reading instructions even then - within minutes. I mixed together the contents of a paper envelope and water (maybe an egg too, I can’t remember) and poured chocolate cake batter into a small, round E-Z Bake Oven Cake Pan (it was no bigger than a biscuit cutter), and pressed a “Cook” button, or something, with the biggest smile I’d had on my face in my youngish life.

That E-Z Bake Oven was more productive than Simon, more instructive than a bike, and more interactive than a hard cover book. Looking back it makes sense. As a foodie now, my favorite gift of all time was a kiddie oven. Back then, I was just following what made me happy and felt like endless fun.

I just bought Zoe, my almost 7 year old daughter, her first E-Z Bake Oven. I also bought her the pastry decorating set to go with it. I can’t wait to see her face when she opens it Christmas morning, I hope she loves hers as much as I loved mine. I am sure that the E-Z Bake Oven cake mixes have improved, I am sure the technology is more advanced than the 70s. But the thrill of watching the lightbulbs inside the E-Z Bake Oven turn on, the pride involved in letting family members taste cakes that YOU AND ONLY YOU MADE WITH NO HELP!, the beginning of an identity or at the very least self-sufficiency that yields yummy results…those are timeless things. Zoe is always at my side in the kitchen, especially when I bake. She won’t be exactly like me (all current evidence to the contrary), but I think I have made a sound, albeit sentimental choice with a gift I believe will make her bubbly with joy. The E-Z Bake Oven, I am hoping, will be a memorable Christmas present that will begin something in her life she can be proud of (and maybe keep her from getting take-out every night when she’s on her own in the big big world).

Zoe doesn’t know how her Mom will delight in this giving two-fold, and it doesn’t matter. Zoe won’t understand (until she is a Mom) why I jumped up and down in aisle M21 of Target last Friday when I clutched the E-Z Bake Oven in my arms, envisioning the pinkness in her cheeks pushed up by her 7 year old smile. Zoe will, as sure as I know my own self, take to her own baking while her father watches a football game on Christmas Day. Just like Christmases past.

Bake me a cake as past as you can, Zoe-baby. Momma knows you can do it without even trying. (And thank goodness you could care less about reading Momma’s blog).