She was a slave to her kitchen. To her oven. To the cookies that had to be made. It's not like she had any particular reason to bake them. There was not a family of four small children that she had to provide money to support, nor was she a a baker who depended on the sales of marvelous items everyday.
No, she simply baked because she liked to. She was a woman who lived alone in a house with a fabulous kitchen. She had one German shepherd named Phineas and one goldfish named Merlin. And she was, well, content. Not exceedingly happy, but not devastatingly depressed either. It's true that baking her cookies had made her smile light up like the fourth of July, while burning them made her heart metaphorically break, as if there was any other way for a heart to break, unless it was stabbed, and then it wouldn't really break. Baking the cookies was her life, and not just any kind of cookie, but chocolate chip cookies. Sure, she COULD bake spritz and pumpkin, sugar and gingerbread, but only if forced. She really just wanted chocolate chip. Simple, dependable. Easy fix.
It's true that she had been so accustomed to the baking of chocolate chip cookies, she began dividing her life into nine to eleven minute segments. Eleven if she liked the people in the moment. Nine if she didn't. She had these times pegged to the nano second. Never would she spend less than nine minutes with a person or by doing any particular activity, nor would she exceed eleven, and that was rare. Eleven was pushing it. Eleven was burning. Similar to altitude in the air from sea level and condition of the oven for baking, altitude of interest dictates length of discussion. But only with a margin of two minutes.
She is a slave to her kitchen.
To time.
To cookies.
Beep.
Times up.
Your initial nine re through, and she's bored with you.
Where's that glass of milk.
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