begin to cool on your window sill. As she leaves, it is very important that you say, “No way girl! Your tutu is dope as fuck! And WHO cuts your hair? You look fierce!” Or the ritual won’t be complete-- the fairy will feel under-appreciated and your baked goods will turn out like the poo pies in that “white people fix racism” movie, The Help. Knowing all about the whims of fairies and very little about the topics I studied for five years during the course of my undergrad is something that is listed on my resume. I am very poor and don’t get hired very frequently. In preparation for the baking fairy, I spent about an hour charging my inner light to the musical stylings of Beyonce (formerly known as Beyonce Knowles, it took me awhile to figure out it was the same person too.) I used all of my boy trapping knowledge to put on my most excellent face. Urban Decay doesn’t come cheap, and normally I would have to promise myself the eventual payoff of sex to appease my guilty conscience for lying to another person about my appearance in this way. “Anyways, no matter how much winged Kat Von D liner I applied, the baking fairy did not appear.” Either she does not exist (doubtful) or she resented my beauty and accomplishments and decided to screw me over (more likely). “You're a basic b,” I said out loud in an empty room to the invisible fairy who was surely taunting me. “And your ugg boots do not look good. No ugg boot has ever looked good.” Nothing happened to me but my roommate’s hydrangea bush instantly caught fire outside. I decided that I would just have to make this damn cheesecake ingredient by myself, with or without that poorly dressed fairy. When I got to the Save On, I sussed out my ingredient situation. As I mentioned before, baking is not an exact science [Martha Stewart edit: you’re still wrong]. So I had taken photos of four drastically different recipes for Polish Cheesecake, and figured I would just buy the ingredients that sounded like they would be the most delicious. I filled up an entire cart with chocolate chips and butter before it occurred to me to rethink my strategy. Correcting my course, I purchased one of everything in the dairy aisle and a single orange (for ZEST!!!) As the tides lovingly follow the moon, so do the seasons bend to my will. At least, that is the only explanation for why it was twenty two degrees at the end of March. I didn’t have time to contemplate the hubris of man, who has decided as a species that it is worth boiling the oceans in order to be able to use the Tim Hortons drive-thru when it’s a little bit peckish out. All I knew was that my milks (homo- and butter-, respectively) were room temperature by the time I walked home, and that I can command global climate patterns with a mere wish of my delicate feminine mind. Take that, Gloria Steinem. It turns out that making Polish farmer’s cheese is relatively simple, especially if you have the cunning of the Swiss on your side-- the secret is that you pour the milk into a massive pot, and then let it softly roll to a boil. It will begin to separate on its own, like two high school graduates who decide to have a baby to improve their boring relationship. Then, all you have to do is add a little bit of vinegar and the curds sit at the top of the pot. I did not have any cheesecloth. In the store, it seemed like an unnecessary purchase. I strained it using my old threadbare western shirt from high school. This added the personal touch in a variety of ways. One, my friend is from Alberta, and enjoys things that are western and zany. Two, after years of wearing a shirt everywhere, a certain amount of your own skin cells become woven into the literal fabric of the shirt. when I strained the cheese through the shirt, some of my own delicious, delicious body was flaking into the cheese, weaving my own signature scent of beer and sweat and high- functioning neuroticism into this Polish tradition. The cheese was delicious, because of me. Nothing good happens without me. Obama? I sent him a dollar online when I was drunk once. Boom, you’re welcome America. The only frustrating thing about making the cheese was the whey-- the protein rich liquid left after the curds separate. A hippie blog online told me that I should keep it to make bread with, or add to my smoothies. I have a smoothie every morning. Sold. I poured the jars into large plastic bags, only slopping about half of it onto the counters. I then poured some of it into our ice cube tray, and hoped my roommates wouldn’t inquire as to why the ice cubes were suddenly yellow. With the cheese all squeaky in a bowl, I set about trying to understand the four different recipes I was drawing from. At this point, I am gambling and hoping that my innate kitchen wizardry would compensate for my relative inexperience making cheesecake. One recipe mentioned mashed potatoes. Sure! My brilliant beautiful friend gave me a box of potatoes for my birthday. She seems to like potatoes, and is Polish. I mushed up some potatoes and added them to the bowl. I added the cheese, but I apparently didn’t have enough, as half of it had stuck to my cowboy shirt, and I had eaten another quarter of it. | added two cups of sour cream, because if I was going to fail I wanted to fail spectacularly. I live my life like a twenty year old frat boy who has never understood the meaning of the word ‘no’-- with unnecessary amounts of bravado, unearned confidence, and an unwillingness to learn from my mistakes similar to that of a Greek god. If you asked a frat boy if he would turn into a swan in order to sleep with a girl, you would not have to ask. He would be already jamming feathers into his arms. Zeus did that, and no one even thought to question the actions of Leda, the girl he seduced, because he was that legendary and sexy, even as a swan. I, along with a platoon of men named Mike, Chad, and Jake, hope to live our lives like legendary fuck-swan gods. (Obviously the sour cream was on the milder end of this spectrum). “T mixed the potatoes, sour cream, and cheese. As this was starting to sound like a chip dip, I added six eggs.” One of the recipes I was following said to separate them, which I did. It then told me to add them at the same time, which seemed either like the recipe was messing with me or like the writer meant to add a section that said, “mix in the yolks. ina different bowl, whip the yolks and sugars and add to the batter last”, but got bored and went to watch porn. Or go to an antique rocking chair show. Whatever people who submit recipes to Jamie Oliver’s website do with their no doubt endless spare time. I added the amount of sugar recommended Student Voice 13 by three of the recipes. At this point, my sweet friend who had planned this surprise for our genius friend had arrived. “Does A. like sweets?” I asked her. “Because it seems like there is not enough sugar in this cake.” My friend paused, as she was in the process of removing her coat and I had not said hi or really acknowledged her presence as a person who had her own day, with its own individual stresses and successes to celebrate or sympathize with. As well as not having been asked about her day, she had had zero context into the cheesecake making process, as she had only just arrived. “Um,” She bravely attempted, as she is a nice person who tries to help. “You know what,” I bulldozed, “She grew up in Western culture. She grew up in Calgary, which is basically the Austin, Texas of Canada. I’m sure she’s eaten multiple McFlurries and enjoyed the heck out of them. Her family may be Polish but this is North America, dammit. This is Trudeau’s Canada and she’s a Political Scientist, she understands free trade and knows that for our economy to survive, we must eat as much sugar and fat as our hearts can handle! It’s 2016, dammit, and we just signed TPP!” With that rousing proclamation, | dumped a bag of sugar into the cake batter. “Um,” Continued my friend. “Hi,” I said. “Can you stir this batter? It’s kind of hard, now that there’s a lot of sugar in it.” 1 handed her the bowl and and watched her as I fixed myself a refreshing mimosa and a snack of light sandwiches. Then I went outside and watched the sun set while contemplating my feelings about life. What already high standards of existence would I surpass? It would be difficult for the UN to create an award better than the Nobel Peace Prize, but I was confident that they would figure something out, to recognize my accomplishments. They’re usually pretty good about that, recognizing extraordinary people, when they’re not ignoring genocides in Rwanda or whatever. I went back in and my friend had poured the cake batter into the pan and left, which was good because the sight of other people’s labour disgusts me. As well, I was tired of how much she talked about herself. Some people can be so selfish. I would be sure to mention this incident, in my speech at the parade someone would be holding in my honour.