Monday, April 28, 2014

Cake hate

My mission was a lemon dessert for the Hatchett Family Easter Dinner.  My dessert of choice was cake.  I envisioned the round contour of the top and the sleek, straight sides plunging toward a etched glass pedestal.  The cake would be moist and light, scented with lemon zest and love.  The filling would be strawberry, tangy and sweet, complimenting the delicate ribbons of lemon cream cheese frosting piped so beautifully around the borders of the cake.  Pastel spotted eggs would line the border to complete the work of art.

At least, that's what I wanted to make.  Instead, I made this:

All was going well until I began to stack the cake and it crumbled in my hands.  I tried to piece it back together and thought my repair attempt was successful, but when I began to dirty ice the sides of the cake the segments of the middle layer began to separate.  It was like watching a plate tectonics horror film.  The more I frosted, the more cake chucks drifted apart while gooey strawberry lava oozed out from the depths of the confection.  In my anger, I picked it up and screamed, "I'm so mad I'm going the throw this on the floor!"  And I was, had Paul not rushed to my side and snatched the cake from my trembling hands.

Cake in the garbage

I think next time I'll stick to cupcakes. . .

Me covered in frosting

Saturday, April 12, 2014


My little Andrea has always been a talkative girl.  She babbled constantly as a baby, prattled non-stop as a toddler, and now that she's preschool age she's a bundle of chatty energy.  She's never been able to do anything without narrating her actions.  If I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner, this is what I listen to:

"Mommy!  I have to go potty!  Wow, I had to go really bad.  I can wipe all by myself.  Flush, and wash, and be on your way.  Oh!  Soap.  Soapy bubbles.  Turn off the water.  Wasting water is a bad choice.  Dry dry hands.  No, Sammy!  You can't come in here.  Mom!  Sam is trying to crawl in the bathroom.  It's okay I can get him out.  Come here, Sam.  Do you want to play with me?  You can play with my doll if you want.  Just don't slobber on my bear.  Mom!  Sam is standing.  MOM! Sam is sitting now.  Now he's crawling.  Mom!  I'm going to watch a show.  A-N-N-I-E.  That spells Annie.  That's my name, Sam.  Your name is Samuel Paul Rowberry.  Bear's name is Bear Evert Rowberry.  Mom!  I'm going to watch Seasame Street.  Mom!  Look, it's Elmo.  Mommy!  He's coloring.  He's singing a song, Mom.  MOMMY!  He has a fish!  I like that fish.  What's that fish's name?  MOM!  WHAT'S THAT FISHES NAME?"

If ever quiet, which is rare, I definitely know she's getting into trouble.

My older sister once asked me if the constant chatter bothered me, and I honestly answered that it doesn't.  I enjoy her little voice and am entertained by some of the wild things that come out of that mouth.  However, she has recently entered into a new phase.  I call it "the WHY phase."  It's pretty  self-explanatory.

She can no longer watch a movie and narrate.  Now I must watch Frozen with her while being bombarded by questions like I'm a murder suspect.

"Mom, why did their boat disappear?  Why are they in a picture?  Where is her sister?  Why is her hair like that?  Why is she cold?  Why is she singing?  Why is she talking to those duckies?  Why are they opening the gates?  What's a con-er-ation?  Why is she jumping on those couches?  Why is she wearing gloves?  I LOVE THIS MOVIE!  Why are they fighting?  Why is there a snowman?  Why are they running?  Why is it snowing?  Why is she so cold?  Why did she freeze her heart?  Why is she scared?  Why does she need a kiss?  Why is he putting out the fire?  Why is Olaf lighting the fire? Why does he have a sword?  Why is she so sad?  Why does she think her sister is dead?  Why did she punch him off the boat?"

I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture.

Someone tell me this phase will be over soon.  I'm running out of patience and answers.