I learned to knit three items: mufflers, booties with decorative pom-poms, and shawls with extensive fringing. What I lacked in variety, I made up for in quantity. I knitted gifts for all my relatives, none of whom ever wore them. Granted, Southern California’s year-round summer weather is not conducive to the wearing of knit scarves, and the last time anyone wore a fringed shawl Betsy Ross was still sewing her flag, but still. Once the gifts were opened, they were never seen again.

This indifferent reaction to my creations choked my woolen muse. I moved on to a whole new hobby involving a recipe for a salty dough that, when baked in the oven for hours, created permanently useless objects perfect for cluttering shelves. I discovered this hobby around the holidays; my friend Lori was using it to make Christmas tree decorations. Faced with the decorative limitations of my Muslim household, I decided to make wreaths for my extended family. Wreaths, I reasoned, added a festive touch without implying that the family had abandoned its native ways and would be roasting a pig in the backyard on the twentyfifth.

I increased the recipe exponentially, necessitating the purchase of pounds and pounds of salt and flour. The wisdom of supersizing the tchotchkes came into question as soon as the first wreath emerged from the oven—it weighed forty pounds. Having already purchased industrial quantities of the ingredients, I felt I had no option but to continue. I mixed, I kneaded, I baked, I painted. Seven days and seven wreaths later, I was done.

The first, second, and third recipients of my holiday cheer showed the same facial expression, bewilderment coupled with lower back strain. The other four never received theirs, thanks to my mother, who said, “Don’t hand out the rest.”

With my muse almost choked but still gasping for air, I moved on to my next hobby, baking desserts. Familial intervention stepped in again. “Stop baking. We’re getting fat.” My photography phase was met with equal glee: “Stop taking our picture.” Not appreciative of my candid shots (mom getting out of bed, parents having an argument, dad asleep on the sofa), my parents forced me to turn to nature as a model. Four rolls of black-and-white photos of leaves on the ground and I was ready to move on.

My painting phase should have been far more appreciated and nurtured, as evidenced by my skill in the self-portrait that depicted a smiling old woman and was entitled “Me on the Inside.” My parents said it didn’t look like me.