B(re)aking Bread... or The Knights Learn a New Trade, Part 2

So one of the new joys in my life (previously alluded to) is baking with the boys.  It's one of the few things that we can all do together and then enjoy the fruits of our labor before Elijah and Judah have forgotten that we even made it.

     What makes it so uniquely delightful is just HOW into it they are.  Almost every recipe we make begins with that wonderful line "Grease a (9 inch round, Bundt, 9x13, apoplectic, etc.) pan lightly and flour it."  This takes ten minutes, mainly because the boys have to a) sprint to their respective chairs, b) hammer on each other for a couple minutes until one of them gets control of the shortening can, c) put about 1000 calories worth of pure lard down in the pan before yours truly realizes that there may a little more grease than necessary, d) giggle their tiny heads off at my ineptitude, and e) take five minutes of scrubbing down to rid their hands of all the slime.


                                 

    Another thing that I have to gauge before we start is Elijah's mood-- if he's well-rested and helpful, than I can generally recruit him to help with the more mundane tasks while I do some of the more difficult ones.  However, if he only seems rested and is instead latently aggressive, then things like this can happen:

          Micah:  Hey LJ, would you help me put some of the cocoa powder (in what is not a Freudian slip, I typed 'coca powder' the first draft and just now noticed it... thank God for editors) into the cake batter?

          Elijah:  Sure thing, Dad.  (takes a massive pile of cocoa powder on his little tablespoon scoop)

          Micah:  Not quite so much, please.  (reaches for the scoop)

         Elijah:  NO!  Don't take it!  (flings cocoa powder high in the air)


    By the time it settled, we all three (including a confused-looking Judah) looked like old-school vaudevillians.

                           
      (Here's the boys checking out the new possibilities for baking -- "Judah, so you think we can make a chicken pot pie?"
)
      After a few weeks, though, we had really become a well-greased machine (sorry, couldn't resist), turning out spectacular cakes, cookies and pastries of all kinds.  I knew we had arrived when we made a little something for our friends who came over on a weeknight, just to show you how cool they are.  Anyone who visits small children on a weeknight deseves kudos in my book.  As we unveiled the cake, our friend looked at the cake.  "Is that ganache?"  she said.

      "Yup," I said.  "The boys and I just threw it together.  You know."  Proudest moment of my life... well. almost.


        Considering that pride generally cometh before the really big falls, I shouldn't have been surprised that the next time, making a very similar cake, Elijah asked if we could all crack the eggs.  He's really good at this, so I said, "Sure. I'll help Judah do the first two, and then you can finish."  Two eggs down, and Elijah stepped to the plate.  He made a neat crack on the side, and the egg was ready to be dropped into the bowl with its brethren.  Except he squeezed the shell instead of pulling it away, which meant that the yolk shot free and slid halfway down the table, where Judah grabbed for it, while crumbly pieces of the shell shattered and slid into the batter.  Mission accomplished, Elijah looked at me in a slight panic.  "Daddy," he said in his breathless voice that generally means he's about to freak out, "don't let Judah ruin the egg!"

       And that's why if we made the same cake fifty times, it would taste different every time.  But we have more fun... or at least less sanity.  Pick your poison, right?