I love you so much, little cake, I bought you twice.
I finished filling out the permission slip for the field trip and had 5 minutes before I was due to help in my daughter's 3rd grade classroom. John had an important phone conference that night and since I was teaching my night course at Dallas Baptist University, Jack needed a ride to Boy Scouts.
As I'm getting off the phone with Amy, making arrangements for Jack, she says, " Sure, Steve can take him. By the way,how did your cake for tonight turn out?"
Stunned, I asked, 'Cake? What cake?"
"Oh, you didn't hear? They all bring homemade cakes and auction them off as a fundraiser."
Revelations like those are the stuff of every working mother's nightmare. Instantly you see your child's face swirling down a lollipop-looking funnel crying, saying, "I was the only one, I was the only one, the only Boy Scout without a ca-a-a-a-a-ke," as the perfect mothers look on and laugh in an evil, "whoo-whoo-whoo---haaa" way with green faces and flames shooting out of every orifice.
Think. Think. I concluded the call, changed clothes for class that night and sensing I would need an extra swipe of Mitchum, hit my armpits another lick. I raced to the store asking myself one question: What would Rachel Ray do? Angel food cake: check. Chocolate chips: check. Every conceivable gummy object in the candy aisle: check. I knew this grocery store field trip would make me late to help my daughter's class but I had no choice.
I arrived at Maggie Lee's school a few minutes late. I was present, in body only, as my mind tried to determine how early I would have to leave to actually throw this project together. There is nothing like the feeling of arriving late and having to leave early to make you feel like a real boob. I apologized to the other mom, explaining that we had a cake to make and her face went sheet-white. Turns out I wasn't the only surprised scout-mom on the block.
I got home, headed straight for the microwave and in one swift movement threw the chocolate chips in the microwave, opened the angel food cake with my teeth and extracted the 7 bags of gummy objects from the grocery sack. I am woman, hear me roar.
The chocolate melted, I positioned our cake in the store-bought box and ripped open the accoutrements like I was civil war hero slashing the enemy's throats in hand-to-hand combat.
The microwave dinged, I gave it one stir and plopped the cocoa coating over the cake.
I had Jack at the ready, armed with decorations. He placed the worms perfectly but then they slid down the molten river of fudge into the nether regions of the center hole. I dug in with both hands to rescue the little buggers and inadvertently smeared opaque coating all over their once-translucent little bodies. Snap! IF I COULD ONLY CURSE.
"Good enough!" I declared it and sprinted out the door, screeching off to my first class fully nauseated yet sparkling with a tiny twinge of pride.
I taught class with an air of, "I've been in the library researching all day." If they could have only seen me juggling gummy worms minutes before, I doubt they would've stuck around for the lecture. With class behind me, I headed for home. I walked through the door and was disappointed that my Boy Scout wasn't home, yet. I was anxious to see what his creation had fetched.
An hour later, he walked up to the house with a box which looked oddly familiar. Jack had a sheepish look on his face. I was mortified that they had somehow not auctioned off his cake. Steve looked even more sheepish. He said, "Well, he wasn't sitting next to me...he apparently bid on his own cake. He uh, bought his own cake. It was $22.00, you can pay it anytime."
"Oh, that's fine. Thank you for taking him, Steve." I said as Steve returned to his car.
"Are you mad, Mom?" Jack asked me as he walked in the door.
I laughed hysterically as I shook my head.
"I'm glad you liked your cake so much, son." I said.
'Yea, there was this other guy who wanted it but I wanted it more."
Then sprang to mind the sentimental story of the boy's homemade boat which he set free down a stream and lost, only to see in a store window a week later. As the tired story goes, he buys it, looks at it lovingly and says, "Little boat, I love you so much. I made you once and then I bought you. I really bought you twice."
As my little boy devoured our hastily-constructed creation, I doubt anything so poetic was wafting through his 7 year old mind. I just hoped he enjoyed that piece of angel-food cake which by my estimation cost about $8.75.
As I'm getting off the phone with Amy, making arrangements for Jack, she says, " Sure, Steve can take him. By the way,how did your cake for tonight turn out?"
Stunned, I asked, 'Cake? What cake?"
"Oh, you didn't hear? They all bring homemade cakes and auction them off as a fundraiser."
Revelations like those are the stuff of every working mother's nightmare. Instantly you see your child's face swirling down a lollipop-looking funnel crying, saying, "I was the only one, I was the only one, the only Boy Scout without a ca-a-a-a-a-ke," as the perfect mothers look on and laugh in an evil, "whoo-whoo-whoo---haaa" way with green faces and flames shooting out of every orifice.
Think. Think. I concluded the call, changed clothes for class that night and sensing I would need an extra swipe of Mitchum, hit my armpits another lick. I raced to the store asking myself one question: What would Rachel Ray do? Angel food cake: check. Chocolate chips: check. Every conceivable gummy object in the candy aisle: check. I knew this grocery store field trip would make me late to help my daughter's class but I had no choice.
I arrived at Maggie Lee's school a few minutes late. I was present, in body only, as my mind tried to determine how early I would have to leave to actually throw this project together. There is nothing like the feeling of arriving late and having to leave early to make you feel like a real boob. I apologized to the other mom, explaining that we had a cake to make and her face went sheet-white. Turns out I wasn't the only surprised scout-mom on the block.
I got home, headed straight for the microwave and in one swift movement threw the chocolate chips in the microwave, opened the angel food cake with my teeth and extracted the 7 bags of gummy objects from the grocery sack. I am woman, hear me roar.
The chocolate melted, I positioned our cake in the store-bought box and ripped open the accoutrements like I was civil war hero slashing the enemy's throats in hand-to-hand combat.
The microwave dinged, I gave it one stir and plopped the cocoa coating over the cake.
I had Jack at the ready, armed with decorations. He placed the worms perfectly but then they slid down the molten river of fudge into the nether regions of the center hole. I dug in with both hands to rescue the little buggers and inadvertently smeared opaque coating all over their once-translucent little bodies. Snap! IF I COULD ONLY CURSE.
"Good enough!" I declared it and sprinted out the door, screeching off to my first class fully nauseated yet sparkling with a tiny twinge of pride.
I taught class with an air of, "I've been in the library researching all day." If they could have only seen me juggling gummy worms minutes before, I doubt they would've stuck around for the lecture. With class behind me, I headed for home. I walked through the door and was disappointed that my Boy Scout wasn't home, yet. I was anxious to see what his creation had fetched.
An hour later, he walked up to the house with a box which looked oddly familiar. Jack had a sheepish look on his face. I was mortified that they had somehow not auctioned off his cake. Steve looked even more sheepish. He said, "Well, he wasn't sitting next to me...he apparently bid on his own cake. He uh, bought his own cake. It was $22.00, you can pay it anytime."
"Oh, that's fine. Thank you for taking him, Steve." I said as Steve returned to his car.
"Are you mad, Mom?" Jack asked me as he walked in the door.
I laughed hysterically as I shook my head.
"I'm glad you liked your cake so much, son." I said.
'Yea, there was this other guy who wanted it but I wanted it more."
Then sprang to mind the sentimental story of the boy's homemade boat which he set free down a stream and lost, only to see in a store window a week later. As the tired story goes, he buys it, looks at it lovingly and says, "Little boat, I love you so much. I made you once and then I bought you. I really bought you twice."
As my little boy devoured our hastily-constructed creation, I doubt anything so poetic was wafting through his 7 year old mind. I just hoped he enjoyed that piece of angel-food cake which by my estimation cost about $8.75.
posted by Jinny Henson @ 9:22 AM
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