She's happy to assist a new generation

I helped make a cake a week or so ago. Little hands helped measure, crack eggs and dump everything into a mixer. It took three children and one adult to grease two pie pans. It seems that my daughter doesn’t own proper cake pans. I sense an easy Christmas present.
Later that evening the children’s dad complained because the spray can of fake shortening had its contents on the outside. I calmly explained that was to make his hands soft. He didn’t believe me.
After the batter was safely in the pans and the pans had been put into the oven, it was time for the battle over who got to lick the beater and the bowl. I let them work it out for themselves. The oldest, Emma, was appalled that her brother, Jacob, had stuck his entire hand and most of his arm into the bowl. Jacob just grinned a chocolate covered smile and licked batter off his arm.
After the cake was done and cooled, I let Emma decorate it. She began by covering the top with canned frosting. Then she decided to make a Minion on top. Every small bowl in the house was lined up on the counter. She put icing in each bowl and added food coloring until she was satisfied with the result. I mopped up red icing from the counter before it could stain.
She put the various colors of frosting into individual sandwich bags and snipped a corner from each. She drew her Minion on the cake. She said it was a painter and that it was bad at its job. Then she spattered red icing all over the top. By the time she was done it looked like her Minion had participated in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.
I’m glad she told me what it was supposed to be because I never would have guessed. The Minion itself was, shall we say, an abstract version of what I thought a Minion should look like. But as long as she was happy, that is all that matters. The cake itself was delicious.
It reminded me of all the times I baked with a bevy of small children when my daughter was little. I would raid my husband’s T-shirt drawer and pop one on each child. That way they didn’t return to their moms covered in flour or whatever. Then the children would add ingredients and take turns stirring. When they lost interest I would gather the shirts and turn them loose until the baking was done.
Cakes, cookies and brownies rarely lasted more than a day or two. My husband would grouse because his T-shirt drawer was empty even though we saved a treat or two for him.
Years passed. Baking became a form of therapy. Then with the advent of diabetes in my husband’s life, I only baked when I was going to Mom’s for a visit or to celebrate birthdays. Even that is gone now.
After her death, we decided to skip birthdays for awhile. There goes my excuse to bake. Besides, the oven has joined the conspiracy to keep me from baking. It doesn’t want to achieve or hold the desired temperature. I suppose we could call the repair people but the stove is old and I am afraid that if we fix the oven then the stovetop will go on the fritz.
Therefore, when my daughter tells me to bake a cake with the kids while she is at work, I jump at the chance. The result is grandkids who are happy to break eggs, measure, add stuff and stick their entire arm into the almost empty bowl. I am impressed with Emma’s artistic ability and more so by her willingness to clean up the resulting mess.
Even if this is the only excuse I have to bake, it is enough. The cake only lasted a day or two. Another generation of bakers is on the rise and I am happy to assist them.