*totally losing it
look at how freakishly red and shiny your apples are, come over a bit Snow White, decide that today is the day you will bake an apple cake.
‘Do you want to make a cake with me?’
‘Oh, YESTH. I wanna mix it.’
The drums of doom have already begun in your head.
‘Aprons! Put this on.’
‘I don’ want this on.’
‘It’s your apron, darling, you need it to keep your clothes nice and clean.’
‘I DON’ WANT THIS ON.’
Get it on him eventually by allowing him to dip his finger in the sugar you have already spilled. A good start.
The Dorset apple cake you have chosen is a glorious chuck-everything-in-the-mixer-and-press-go recipe, so you get chucking while the two-year-old busies himself trying to stick his whisk into the moving parts and giving you tiny heart-attacks as you lunge to save his fingers each time.
He distracts you so much you accidentally add twice as much of one ingredient, so have to add twice as much of the other ingredients too, and now you have more cake than a human family can possibly eat without dying, thanks two-year-old.
‘I need ter mix it now.’
It doesn’t need mixing anymore, especially not ineptly with a whisk, flicking bits of batter hither and yon. He is cute enough that you let it slide.
You have thought ahead and cored, peeled and sliced three apples (your least favourite task) before you got the toddler involved. You present him with a bowl of sliced apples and he lets out a tiny scream.
‘I eat the apples. Mummy. My turn.’
‘We’re going to put them on the -‘
‘I WANT THE APPLES.’
You didn’t even know he liked apples, but you let him eat them while you pour cake batter into the tin. You probably have too much anyway. He eats so many his poos are off the pH scale for three days.
In order to get him off the remaining apples, you give him the beater to lick. Shut up. Our grandparents were wrong and it’s totally alright to lick the beater.
No one gets salmonella, because you LIVE IN THE UK AND THE RED LION SIGN MEANS THEY’RE FINE AND SALMONELLA IS MORE OR LESS NOT A THING HERE, SAY SCIENTISTS.
Cinnamon through a sieve. He sneezes worryingly near the cake mix. You decide it is naptime.
The smell of baking apples wafts seductively through your house. The toddler is asleep. You clean up the mess, and put the kettle on. Just when you’re about to wake him up for the school run, you find a browning apple slice stuck to your left bottom cheek.
Then there is cake, and you and your apple-bottomed, flour-covered, frizzy-haired self are very glad indeed.
PS: eat this cake warm from the oven, eat it with a dollop of cold custard, eat it with a sense of gladness at being alive.