Last night, my two teen girls made a pumpkin pie from scratch. I scratched my head. Just like me, they're missing the cooking and baking genes. Yet there they were, laughing, measuring, and stirring. Getting along, even.
When the pie was out of the oven but not completely cooled, they proudly served me a piece.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. Perfection.
My daughters are wing walkers, always up for adventure. They knew making this pie was crossing unfamiliar terrain and very risky. If the pie was a success, I would likely eat most of it. And they didn't want to see me flunk dessert rehab again.
Naturally, I waited until they were out of the kitchen to sneak another slice. I savored it behind the curtains of my canopy bed.
Craving more, I waited 10 minutes and returned to the tin.
I found this note:
"Don't do it ma...
We worked on this, it's about equity, go back to sleep."
I didn't do it. I honored equity (We're from Berkeley, can you tell?). I went to sleep.
I am blessed to have such strong daughters. Dammit.
The pie. The scold.
Closeup of the shame-fortified PC note.
