Like Mother Like Daughter
It's five in the afternoon, and I'm debating whether to sacrafice valuable calories for a glass of wine, or save them for the cake my daughter made last night. It's really no contest.
That cake! Oh, my goodness. I let her make it with her two friends. They're all nine years old. It was from a boxed mix so all she had to do was throw in the eggs, water, and oil. No problem.
I was working on my computer when she popped in my office and said, "Mom, where's the recipe for the icing?" Her two friends were right behind her, on either side. One blond, one brunette, and my daughter, the redhead.
This would have been my cue to get up, sigh, and lead this parade of girls back into the kitchen to find the recipe for them, and stick around to oversee the making and frosting of the cake.
But doggone it, I didn't want to get up. So here's what happened. My daughter has made icing before, and when she couldn't find the recipe, she thought she could remember the ingredients: butter, a teaspoon of vanilla, and a box of powdered sugar. But how much butter? Was it one stick or two?
The girls pulled out the mixer and fluffed up the butter, added the powdered sugar and vanilla, then shook out a few drops of green food coloring to make it pretty. My daughter knows you have to wait until the cake is cooled before icing, but in their lust for cake, the girls put the icing on while the cake was still warm.
"Mo-om!" my daughter bellowed. "Helllp!"
I ran into the kitchen, bracing myself for the sight of blood. Oh the horror! The icing had melted into that warm cake and ran down the sides in light and dark greasy green streaks. Before I could even say, "What the?" the top layer began slowly sliding over the bottom layer, sliding, sliding, sliding, until the bottom edge landed on the counter, and the top edge pointed up to the sky like a flying saucer cruising sideways.
"Mom, help!" my daughter screamed. As if I could, I thought. Then the three of them burst out laughing as the frosting started flowing off the flying saucer and formed seafoam green slime on the countertop.
The girls' fingers waded cautiously into the frosting, and soon they were brave enough to venture a little sample. "Tastes a lot like butter," the blond said.
I dipped my finger in. "A LOT like butter," I laughed. "How much did you put in there?"
"Just two sticks," my daughter answered innocently.
"Two sticks? It's supposed to be six tablespoons, not two sticks. You put sixteen tablespoons of butter in that icing!"
The girls thought that was side-splitting funny. They laughed and licked frosting with abandon. We sliced ourselves an experimental piece of the bottom layer of cake, a little scared because the icing had oozed down into every crack and pore, and it looked soggy and greasy.
Oh, but that greasy green butter cake is the best thing I ever tasted. You have to close your eyes to eat it, it's so ugly. But it beats a glass of wine, hands down.
7/13/02