Take for example my BFF, Shannon.
Shannon was supposed to teach Introduction to Baking at the local cooking school but got a better offer a week before the class was scheduled to begin. Who could pass up an offer to cater to the rich and famous in the Hamptons? I know I wouldn’t have done.
“You couldn’t step in and teach the class for me?” she’d asked me over coffee.
“I shouldn’t because you won’t learn about biting off more than you can chew. You do that a lot.”
“Now that comment sounds like you’re going to do it.”
“Just this once. And if you attend any parties while you’re there I want photos sent ASAP.”
I’d agreed to take over the class for her before it had really sunk in that I’d be expected to teach the fine art of baking for a whole month. Three days before the class began I’d overdosed on the Food Network and slept with every food magazine in existence under my pillow. By the time the first class rolled around my stomach was doing flips and my knees shook.
