You’ll whisk in the eggs as a 7-year-old asks you what will happen if his class doesn’t have school again next week. It will, you tell him.
But what if it doesn’t? he’ll ask. Could I bake another cake?
Not a chance of either, you tell him, handing him a whisk for licking.
You wait not-long-enough for the cake to cool, then dice the double batch into tiny cubes for sharing and, oh, familial corner portion justification.
You top with melted sugar, scoops of jelly and currants, then gust yourselves out into the chill to deliver some neighborly cheer. To anyone on your favorites list, you knock, containers in hand. Just in case you need some for later?
You become a traveling team of salesmen, minus the one-time-only offer, nor the fee, you and your particularly jovial captain. He fusses with his helmet; you breathe in a cold spring day. But you both know the truth: of the many available offerings on a day like today, shoving cake upon the innocent is perhaps the very best. You bike and cycle, and still, there is half a cake to carry home.
There might be enough to save some cake after all! you prepare to say, as you reach your front door. But he stops you mid-sentence to read his first draft of his newly published paper, and there’s pride in his eyes and joy in his voice, and you decide there isn’t a worthy substitute for such beauty.
On Saturday, he earns $20 worth of bonus points.
You both celebrate with cake.
