My daughter and I made Whoopie Pies last night. It was a monumental occasion. She was in control.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter. Her in charge of the baking, though? That’s hard.
It was the time of evening when I was all over the place. Picking one child up, dropping the other off. Thinking about dinner. Supervising the homework. I wouldn’t bake during this time. Not for anything. Well, except for George Clooney maybe.
So there I am, all the time trying to keep an eye on her progress. Getting just the tiniest bit stressy. You could say that.
There were a few issues with the creaming of the butter. It wasn’t at room temperature. I couldn’t help it. I stepped in. Told her how it should be done.
She followed the instructions. Put them in the oven.
I made pasta for dinner all the time reminding her to take them out. She didn’t put the timer on. I had to be sure.
I will admit it the finished product was fine. The cake moist and perfectly chocolately…not too sweet.
We agreed I’d make the frosting. Things had calmed down. I was happy to help.
After dinner she went upstairs to her room.
It was just the whoopie pies and me now. Frosting made. Assembly time.
Here’s where it gets bad. I fiddled. I meddled. I tweeked. A bit of this, a bit of that. Did I even realise I was doing it? Not for a second.
So later that night, reading her facebook status, it said, “don’t try baking with Heather Davis, she gets serious.” Quite a few people liked that status. You know who you are. And my mother replied, “I would never go there!”
We had a giggle today eating them though.