I spent the afternoon making Ken's birthday cake, the same cake I have made him every year for the seventeen years we've been together. It was so easy when we lived in the flat, low lands of the Shire-like Midwest, and even though I've made it fourteen times here in the high, wild country of The Rockies, I still struggle to bake a decent cake. It entails lots of adjustments, an incredible number of bowls, spoons, a sieve, round cake pans that drive me nuts, raspberries, more raspberries, and enough chocolate to kill a pack of wild dogs.
Duncan likes to stand in the middle of the kitchen where he can test my agility and ensure that I stay on my toes. He doesn't like it when I'm busy but he also doesn't like to be far away from me either. And so there he stands until I finally have a moment to sit down and relax (while the frosting cools and prepares to have the Hell whipped out of it). So we curl up on the couch together and just be, waiting for Little Man to come home to his birthday cake.
Happy birthday, Ken. Duncan and I love you!