The Baker, part 3

I’ve never made pound cake, but that hardly matters to her mission. She has set about making it, shuttling back and forth between the red hardback tome splayed open on the counter top and the pantry and between the pantry and the refrigerator. I said I’m not doing any more kitchen cleaning tonight.

I’m not doing any more kitchen cleaning tonight.

I’m not doing any more kitchen cleaning tonight.

She comes to me with a rumpled sugar bag. “Is this one cup?”

“I don’t know. You should measure it.”

She comes to me with a rumpled flour bag. “Is this enough flour?”

“I don’t know. You should measure it.”

Minutes worth of undeterred, focused work elapse in the kitchen. I’m several paragraphs into my magazine article before the first serious obstacle presents itself. “Dad, how do you separate eggs? The recipe says to use eggs that are ‘separated.'”

I’m not doing any more kitchen cleaning tonight, but only if I get involved here. I explain the simple egg-separating technique, but her face is registering more confusion than confidence, so I offer to show her with one. That’s it. She sees one and she’s got it. In a couple minutes there is a bowl of yolks and a bowl of whites. She asks if I’ll mix the yolks into her batter while she adds them one at a time.

I’m not doing any more–

Once we’ve beaten in the yolks, she asks what to do with the whites. “I don’t know,” I answer. “Probably get rid of them.” And just like that the egg whites slide down the drain.

She’s got it from here, and it’s time for my shower, so I leave her to it. No sooner have I closed the bathroom door, though, do I hear the project’s first panicked exclamation. “Oh no!” she yells. I wait for more. Nothing.

“What is it?”

“We were supposed to keep the egg whites!”