Coco has become quite the baker these days. On Saturday this weekend, she helped Papa make the birthday cake for Margot and Flynn's birthday party and some banana bread as well. Then, the next day, she and Papa made sugar cookies with frosting and sprinkles.
But there is a bit of a story behind the cookies baked on Sunday . . ..
On Saturday night, as I was putting Cornelia to bed after the twins' birthday party, she asked about the birthday cake. She wanted a piece of cake. The cake she helped Papa make that day. Putting aside that it was bedtime and a piece of cake was out of the question, the cake was gone. Not because it had been eaten at the birthday party, but because Cornelia's dads had given the remains of the cake away.
It seemed an entirely reasonable thing to do at the time. At the end of the party half the cake was left; the cake was huge so half of a huge cake is a lot of cake. (See the picture below.) As the party was ending and the neighbors were leaving -- neighbors with multiple children of cake-eating age at home -- it seemed like a good idea to give the cake away rather than leave it in the house where Ken and I would have no willpower to resist consuming it in less than 48 hours. In the Wingard family, leftover desserts are slowly and surely consumed through a process called "straightening the edges." "Oh, I'll just straighten this edge of pie." or "Oh, look at the crooked edge of that cake. I better straighten that out." It's brilliant in its subtle innocence. Obviously, the cake had to be removed from the premises.
Alas, in our panic to get that half-of-a-huge-cake out of the house, we forgot that our own child who is of a cake-eating age and who had helped make that cake would sure want another piece of the cake. So, there I sat next to Cornelia's bed, looking at her and thinking of what to say . . . .
"Um, well, the cake is gone," I heard myself say.
Then it came. What I knew would come as soon as I knew I had to speak those words. First, the welling up of tears, then the outright crying and then finally the uncontrollable sobbing and wailing over the loss of the cake. My thoughts raced. "What have I done? How could I be so thoughtless? I gave away her cake! Cake I would have happily eaten with her. I am a horrible father. But it was Ken's fault after all! I didn't want to give away the cake. Papa made Daddy do it!"
Fortunately, before I could throw Ken under the bus for giving away the cake, he came into the room, assessed the situation and managed to change the course of the conversation. He started talking to Cornelia about the cake, and how she had helped make it and how much fun they had making it. Then -- before more talk of the lost cake resulted in more tears -- he seamlessly moved the conversation to the idea that they could make cookies together tomorrow. Miraculously, the tears were replaced by excitement at the prospect of making cookies. Cookies that would absolutely, definitely and most certainly not be given away.
But there is a bit of a story behind the cookies baked on Sunday . . ..
On Saturday night, as I was putting Cornelia to bed after the twins' birthday party, she asked about the birthday cake. She wanted a piece of cake. The cake she helped Papa make that day. Putting aside that it was bedtime and a piece of cake was out of the question, the cake was gone. Not because it had been eaten at the birthday party, but because Cornelia's dads had given the remains of the cake away.
It seemed an entirely reasonable thing to do at the time. At the end of the party half the cake was left; the cake was huge so half of a huge cake is a lot of cake. (See the picture below.) As the party was ending and the neighbors were leaving -- neighbors with multiple children of cake-eating age at home -- it seemed like a good idea to give the cake away rather than leave it in the house where Ken and I would have no willpower to resist consuming it in less than 48 hours. In the Wingard family, leftover desserts are slowly and surely consumed through a process called "straightening the edges." "Oh, I'll just straighten this edge of pie." or "Oh, look at the crooked edge of that cake. I better straighten that out." It's brilliant in its subtle innocence. Obviously, the cake had to be removed from the premises.
Alas, in our panic to get that half-of-a-huge-cake out of the house, we forgot that our own child who is of a cake-eating age and who had helped make that cake would sure want another piece of the cake. So, there I sat next to Cornelia's bed, looking at her and thinking of what to say . . . .
"Um, well, the cake is gone," I heard myself say.
Then it came. What I knew would come as soon as I knew I had to speak those words. First, the welling up of tears, then the outright crying and then finally the uncontrollable sobbing and wailing over the loss of the cake. My thoughts raced. "What have I done? How could I be so thoughtless? I gave away her cake! Cake I would have happily eaten with her. I am a horrible father. But it was Ken's fault after all! I didn't want to give away the cake. Papa made Daddy do it!"
Fortunately, before I could throw Ken under the bus for giving away the cake, he came into the room, assessed the situation and managed to change the course of the conversation. He started talking to Cornelia about the cake, and how she had helped make it and how much fun they had making it. Then -- before more talk of the lost cake resulted in more tears -- he seamlessly moved the conversation to the idea that they could make cookies together tomorrow. Miraculously, the tears were replaced by excitement at the prospect of making cookies. Cookies that would absolutely, definitely and most certainly not be given away.
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| The Cake |
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