Another week draws to a close, and I get ready for another wild weekend of incredible, breathtaking domesticity.

Tomorrow will see the results of the Cub Scout Pack 216 Father-Son Bake-Off—which will hopefully have a better outcome for us than the Pinewood Derby. We made the cake last night—devil’s food with lemon icing and a big blue Cub Scout logo in the middle. This was a cake mix, so Mr. Tiny Testosterone was able to do most of it, except for the part where there is the pouring of batter into the pan. Such requires the strength of a mighty man such as me.

My mom used to bake a cake every week, and then would go mad during the holidays and bake all sorts of stuff. I learned how to make red velvet cakes, rum cakes, lazy-dazy cakes, 7-Up cakes, fruit cakes, pound cakes—a little bit of everything. I always got to lick the beaters. Back in those ignorant days, no one ever gave any thought to eating raw cookie dough, or tasting ice cream batter, or licking the cake batter bowl. And then there came the Great Salmonella Plague in which even thinking about raw eggs caused people to swoon and beg for relief and claw down the doors of personal injury lawyers. I thought of that last night as he finished mixing up the goo with the hand mixer. “Can I lick one of those metal things?” The government nanny alarms went off and for a brief time, I couldn’t think what to do.

Then I took the beaters out, gave him one, and I took the other. Devil’s food indeed. Sure was good.

See you all Monday.
posted by Terry at 4:25:00 PM