Simone and Nadia have been begging for Bake Pops. There’s a commercial on one of their favorite channels, touting all things wonderful about the tiny cakes that look like lollipops.
If I were the baking kind, I would purchase a pan, whip some up and have them ready for when they return from school. Their eyes would grow big, and I would sit by, arms crossed in confidence, while they devoured one or two. There’s only one problem: I am not the baking kind.
I don’t blame many things on my mother, but I am going to blame this on her. My father loves pecan pie, and for years she tried to bake them for him. No matter what she did, she just could not master the pecan pie. Hers didn’t gel right, and the pecans sat on the bottom of the pan. Oh, how she tried, and oh, how she failed. I watched from afar, sticking around long enough to steal a spoonful of sweetness. See, it’s in my genes. Baking is not for me.
Sure, I can cook the simplest of cakes. As soon as the directions start requiring that I sift ingredients and stir them for a certain amount of time, I get all flummoxed. I rush, forget something, do something backward, or mess it up in some other way my cooking friends find impossible to believe.
That’s why the local bakery is my friend. When birthdays come around, I call up and place an order. A beautiful cake shows up on the day of the occasion, and no one says a word about the cake being dry, or lopsided, or undercooked.
The Bake Pops are so new I can’t get them at the local bakery. I may have to suspend my non-baking pact and purchase a pan or a kit. I secretly wish the girls would forget about the trendy treat. That’s not going to happen as long as that commercial is on one of their favorite channels. I promise not to report back with the details of how it all went down. All I ask is that you keep my Bake Pops and me in your thoughts and prayers.