Baked

Everything around me is a mess
A cataclysm of surrounding waste;
And yet I count the day a sweet success
Because of what remains for us to taste.
It is a rare day when I am not glad
We baked so many random fluffy things,
Moreover, I believe I would be sad
Without the joy that looking at them brings,
For you have left, and I have now to clean
A million dishes - or at least, them all.
So looking at the food instead may mean
That I have simply found a way to stall:
Yet that's not it, for in the food I see
Our solid instance of creative glee.