In perhaps the most disturbing blog post I have had to yet compose, but far and away the most humbling because I know family will read this, I am becoming my mother.
Our bible study group was on supper at church tonight, and since Kate was leading the service and left at 3.30pm, I stayed at home baking a cake to bring later. Now, despite the apparent evidence just presented, this is not how I am becoming my mother. Besides, it was an ‘instant’ cake - all I had to do was mix some butter, eggs and water in with the powder and then stick it in the oven. Repeat procedure for the icing and you’re done.
As an aside, I really hope it wasn’t terrible because anyone would have thought Kate made it and thought less of her cooking abilities. Just between you and I, she’s a brilliant cook and looked upon the instant cake with disdain. It just happened to be a marketing gimmick that came for free with the plastic cake holder we bought two weeks ago.
I’ve wandered, but not too far from the story I’m telling, as you’ll soon see.
On returning home I looked at the large array of dirty dishes and cookware around the sink and thought about how I would tackle the problem. A man’s brain sees problems in need of a solution. I just thought I should point that out. Despite having finished baking an instant cake no more than four hours earlier, I was still thinking like a man.
Things needed to be organised. Put in their place. Fitted. You see, a large mound of dishes is much less daunting when it’s tidy before you start washing things. On the stovetop there was a stack of plates on the right burner, the wok from lunch straddled the two back burners, the sink was full to overflowing with cooking bowls and utensils - and every inch of counter space betwixt the two was taken.
The only free space in this menagerie was the left burner on the stovetop.
It was here that I placed our new cake holder that had this very evening experienced for the first time the fullness of its purpose - to hold cakes.
My family will no doubt at this point be laughing with glee, knowing what invariably comes next.
I turned to attend to other things and smelt that acrid stench of melting plastic. Yes, after melting the 1 ½ tablespoons of butter with 1 ½ tablespoons of milk, the front-left burner remained on for three hours while out of the house.
The picture is of the distraught cake-holder, the offending burner, and the wine I used to soothe my ego as I wrote this post.
My much-maligned mother has been the butt of many a joke over the years for the melted pots, pans and plastic that have been the result of occasions such as this. I must unjustifiably apologise to her. And to those who will now ridicule me, can I help what I have become? I think not.
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