“Do we…actually have…you know…the STUFF required for baking? Like, pans?” asked Sophie.
“I DO NOT KNOW, MY CHILDREN. But I feel optimistic that your father left us at least one pan. Let us search!”
They exchanged glances and folded their arms. They watched as I rummaged in the back of the bottom cupboards. Aha! An ancient amber glass pan, but not the 8 x 8 x 2 the crankypants instructions called for.
“MY CHILDREN, IT IS THE INCORRECT SIZE. Does this matter, in the world of baking? Do you know?”
“I don’t think it matters,” said Hattie B, hopefully.
I found another pan, a dingy metal one. “We can pour the mix into TWO pans!”
They squinted at me as if I were speaking in tongues.
“TWO PANS! SEE? WE SHALL BAKE.”
I clapped my hands and passed out butter sticks.
“HENCEFORTH, YOU SHALL BUTTER THE PANS! I have seen this on TV.”
“We do this with Daddy,” Hattie offered, helpfully.
“OH. Well. Yes. Then you know,” I replied.
“We know,” they chimed.
They buttered the pans. They broke eggs into a bowl while I whisked butter on the stove.
“I BAKE! THEREFORE, I ROCK! HEAR YE! YOUR MOTHER, YEA, VERILY, SHE ROCKETH THE HOUSE.”
They will remember my idiocy fondly, someday.
I poured the eggs into the creamy melted butter on the stove. I added the brownie mix. I stirred. But not fast.
No one told me baking was a competitive timed sport.
[read more...]
{ Comments on this entry are closed }