For Kelly's birthday I decided to make her a decadent homemade chocolate cake, the recipe of which called for methods of baking far beyond my skill level. (Matt was sure that I would finish the recipe and then turn the page and find a paper that said "Surprise! You have completed a potion to raise the dead!") I had to fold and stir and whip and cream some six bowls at once, and at one point the batter was supposed to double in size while I beat it in a glass bowl placed on top of a boiling pot of water. The batter was like this incredible meringue that smelled like Heaven, and all that was left was to bake it. At last! I greased the pans and as I turned to pour out the bowl, what did I discover but that the batter was bubbling bubbling bubbling and deflating deflating deflating 'til it was nothing but liquid. When I poured it out, it barely covered the bottom of the pans! What could I do but bake it? Twenty minutes later, each layer came out a round, hard, swiss-cheese textured disc. I wept. Lucas looked at it and said "Cookie!" which made me weep more because he also knows the word cake. In the end, I made a box-mix which apparently tasted fine but to me tasted like nothing but bitter defeat. Does this story have a moral, you ask? Oh yes. Here it is: if your son has a smart little baker's suit*, you should just let him do the baking.
*I assume, of course, that you do not have a son who has a baker's suit, therefore limiting this moral to myself. I can only assume that you bake delightfully. :)
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