The origin story(?) of Isaac becoming a young baker!

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Isaac pulled up a chair to wearily plop himself down on, burying his face into his hands.
He could barely force himself to look at the wreck that was his kitchen. Condiments scattered on all the tables, spilled and torn. A mangled bag of flour sat gloomily on the island counter, perched in a mound of its own contents. Eggshells and yolk splattered and smeared. Mixing bowls tipped and dirty. The oven still slowly spewing out stinking smoke as it struggled to contain the horror of a mess within.
In the middle of it all sat the horrific sight of Isaac’s first creation. The mound of charred batter sagged under its own weight, smoldering. Isaac new better than to try it out – it smelled as bad as it looked.
Isaac pulled the front of his hat over his face and let out a groan. It was going so well at first. He had gotten a fancy recipe book and grabbed a good mound of general baking supplies on his way home. He had felt invincible with his new apron, his new hat.
Perhaps the first mistake was picking something too complicated. He had figured a soufflé wouldn’t be that difficult to pull off. Then came the measuring, where he poured in too much flour. Then the eggs – he never really could figure out how to crack them without mixing in bits of the shell. Then he messed and pandered with the thing too much while it was in the oven.
In the end he had done too much too fast. The consequences of such actions lay sloppily in front of him.
He felt awful. He wasn’t ready to be a baker. He looked down at his own apron, stained and sticky from all the work he did this afternoon. What a mess. Surely whoever gifted him this must have made a mistake? Maybe they were thinking of another Isaac Roo that was out of town, who could crack eggs perfectly every time, and measure sugar correctly, and hold the tray steady when putting it into the oven.
…No, that couldn’t be it. The box was labeled for him, and for him specifically. Surely there was a reason this anonymous donor gave it to him. This person, whoever they were believed in him, that he could do it. He could be a baker. He’d just have to do better next time. An old wise phrase echoed in his mind… “If at first you don’t succeed…”
He stood up repositioning his hat to look back at the kitchen, new energy filling his chest and heart.
“Okay,” He said aloud. “Let’s clean this place up. Then we’ll try again.”