Happy Birthday, Husband!

I never much liked baking. My sister’s the baker. Not me. Remember that scene in The Sopranos? An early season. Meadow and her friend (David Chase’s daughter — I forget the character’s name) are baking or cooking, listening to TLC. Pots and bowls and spoons everywhere. It’s a disaster of teenage incompetence, impatience and entitlement. And an unmitigated mess. That was always me, “baking.”

But then I had a kid. And then the world had COVID. And I started baking more. For myself. For my husband’s sweet tooth. For the future, when I imagined sending Theodore to school with cookies or cakes, or for Santa, or for sleepover snacks — like some idealized version of child- and motherhood. I figured I had to learn how to bake if I wanted those imagined scenes to become reality.

I’ve gotten a lot better. My cakes and cookies are actually very good, with only the rarest of disasters. But until yesterday I had never included Theo in baking. I’m a messy person who hates mess— just thinking about the inevitable sticky/floury/buttery toddler baking experience really turned me off. I gave in, though, and it was magic. True stuff-forever-memories-are-made-of-magic.

We made a birthday cake for Ed (@smittenkitchen strawberry cake, to be precise), Theo listening to directions, joyfully helping at every stage, sneaking in a strawberry (or 10), and waiting patiently for the cake to emerge from the oven…only for me to immediately drop it 😝😝😝 Yup. I was the one who made the mess. Go figure.

PSA: Cook and bake for your kids. WITH your kids. And if they (or YOU) make a mess, just keep cool, carry on, and cover it up with some powdered sugar and candles.