Seriously.
You know the picture: the adorable, pin-curled fifties housewife, in a perfect little circle-skirt dress with a darling half-apron tied at her tiny waist, bends over in her heels and pulls a tray of perfect little circle-cut cookies from her beautiful, pristine oven in her immaculate kitchen. No dirty dishes in the sink, no flour in her hair. No burned edges or squishy centers. Just perfection, served effortlessly.
And here's my picture: the slightly sleepy, disheveled erstwhile student, in wrinkled pajama bottoms and a dingy men's undershirt, spends hours and every dish in her kitchen making all manner of goodies for her tea party, and when she pulls the cookies from the oven they're melting into each other, burning and simultaneously too raw, the beautiful patterns of the expensive cookie cutters becoming no more than blobs in the heat of the electric oven.
