I needed to make some money. “I’m going to have a bake sale,” I declared to my mother. I felt I had the experience, having practiced baking quite a lot on my Betty Crocker Easy Bake Mini Oven which I got when I was about six. By the age of seven I had moved on to making a range of microwave recipes and had even used the real oven for the occasional cakes, cookies and brownies.

I went about planning my menu. An assortment of desserts. A chocolate cake. A no bake cheesecake. Brownies. Chocolate chip cookies. And a graham cracker chocolate specialty I had recently discovered.

I woke up early on a Saturday morning and went about my baking, preparing everything carefully. I cooled each batch of cookies on a rack. I carefully frosted the chocolate cake. I sliced all the dessert items in single serving pieces and made placards detailing their individual sale price. “Slice of chocolate cake: 75 cents,” or “Cheesecake Slice: 85 cents.” The cookies and brownies were each 25 cents. According to my business plan, if I sold all the items I would make approximately $20.

By 10 am, around the time my brothers and sisters began to open their eyes and contemplate getting out of bed, I had all my wares carefully displayed on the kitchen table, each one with its sale price. And a bigger sign with the words “Bake Sale.”

I pulled up a chair and awaited my customers.

“What’s all this?” Mimo said as she came into the kitchen, picking up a brownie and popping it into her mouth.

“I’m having a bake sale,” I said. “That will be 25 cents.”

“I’m not paying for that,” she said, as she picked up a cookie and took a bite.

“But I’m having a bake sale,” I said again. “These are for sale. I made them.”

“Did you buy all the ingredients?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “We already had all the ingredients in the house.”

“Then you can’t sell them,” she said. “All of this belongs to all of us. You can’t charge us for ingredients that belong to all of us,” she said, now sampling a slice of cheesecake.

“But I baked them,” I said, starting to sound a little desperate and possibly whiny. “They’re mine. I can sell them.”

“No you can’t,” she said picking up the entire chocolate cake and walking away. “But good job,” she said as she turned around looking back. “It all tastes great. You may have a future as a baker.”