When my husband and I returned from New York late last night, we found the three kids that were home, sick. (Our oldest daughter drove in from Arizona last Friday for her summer vacation. Ironically, we ended up missing one another, so it was good to reconnect.) Not sure what it is about people being sick in my family, but when they are, those same individuals are drawn to bake. Of course, the fact that today’s grey, gloomy and all around yucky probably is playing a good part in that desire.
My youngest daughter was inspired to bake homemade banana cupcakes with homemade frosting.
Yum!
She opted to do this with her younger brother. A little background is in order here. On any given day, the two can be driven to attempt to annihilate one another. So I was thrilled to see them want to work together. Didn’t know or care what the kitchen would look like after, was just glad that they wanted to spend some positive time interacting with one another. (Side note: this is the second time in a week that they’ve baked together.)
Good God! Alert the presses! Things are looking up. : )
Anyhow, the cupcakes turned out great. And so did the frosting. But then it came time to put said frosting on the cupcakes. I stress the word on as that’s what most tend to aim for when decorating cupcakes.
Well, just a few minutes ago, my oldest daughter, grinning like Cheshire cat high on catnip, came into my office and said, “Come here! You’ve got to see what your daughter did and why it’s imperative that she not be allowed to bake!”
Okay, that got me out of my chair pretty fast.
Entering the kitchen, my oldest daughter pointed. “See that disaster?”
I looked at what she was referring to. The cupcakes were all sitting on the counter in neat little rows. Two had been frosted. Alongside one was what my daughter was referring—about half the frosting globbed into a sugary goodness mountain. From said spill, my younger daughter was calmly scooping frosting with a knife and spreading it on a cupcake she held in her hand.
I looked at my oldest daughter, silently expressing that I didn’t see what the problem was. Exasperated, she pointed at the burst frosting bag, spilling its contents and said, “She broke the it!”
“That happens.”
“But, ewwww! She’s scooping frosting off the counter.”
“And…? The counter is clean. You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to. Besides,” I said playfully poking my oldest daughter’s chest, “I don’t see you doing any baking.”
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