Frosting

This is just a short little thing that I wrote for one of my classes. Fair warning, it’s not my best work.

 

“First, you hold the whisk like this.” My father’s arms were curled around my diminutive form, his hands guiding mine. “Hold the bowl tilted on its side.” He helped me balance the bowl. “Now, Eva, this is going to take some muscle!” He warned.

“I can do it.” I assured him. “I’m a big girl.” I pointed out. He smiled and agreed, helping me mix the concoction. After a while, I told him that although I was sure that I could continue, it would probably be best that he finished mixing.

He replied with the customary “of course” and then finished the task as I watched on contentedly.

Then, we placed the batter in the molds. “Why are they called cupcakes, Daddy?” I asked.

He grinned, used to, after six years, my constant questions. “Well, Sweetie, they’re called that because they’re little cakes that are baked in something that looks like a cup.”

“Oh.” After placing the pans in the oven, a task I was told I could not help with since it was a “grown-up job,” we sat down at the dining room table. “D’ya think that Mommy will like her birthday surprise?” I asked my father, uncertainty weaving its tendrils through my voice.

“Of course she will, Sweetie Pie!” My father reassured me. “She loves everything that you make her, Eva!”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right Daddy.” Our conversation continued along those lines until the egg timer rang.

Finally, it was time for my favorite part of cooking, frosting, or as my parents referred to it, another excuse for mess making. My dad opened the fridge door that was layered over with various pictures of yours truly. He pulled out the can of frosting as well as the tube for lettering. He handed both to me and said, “Go crazy.”

I did. First I slathered mountains of frosting on each cupcake. I then wrote a single letter on the top of each cupcake. I arranged them on a platter and laid it on the table, just in time for my mother to waltz through the door after work.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOMMY!” I ran screaming down the front hall. A dull thud ricocheted off the walls as I smashed into my mother’s legs, throwing my arms around her waist, the highest point of her that I could reach. “I love you!”

“I love you too, Monkey!” She bent down and kissed me on the forehead. Catching a whiff of my afternoon’s activities she looked me in the eye and asked if I had anything to tell her.

“Nope!” I smiled.

“You’re such a cheeky monkey!” My dad called, following me from the kitchen at a more sedate pace. “Welcome home, Honey and Happy Birthday!” He kissed her on the cheek.

“Come on, Mommy! I wanna show you something!”

“One second, Bunny! Let me take off my shoes.” I let her do so, impatiently tapping my foot as I waited. As soon as she had finished, I dragged her into the dining room where her surprise waited. We rounded the corner and she was greeted with funfetti cupcakes reading:

Hapy Brithday Mommy!!!!!!!!

Love EVA


 

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