The other day I finally relented and let Caroline bake some cookies.
The reason for the stall? I was holding out for the kind I wanted, thumbprint, while she was stonewalling for the kind which requires rolling pins, cookie cutters, and icing...steps which for me merely translate to: having to wait longer before I can eat a cookie.
Guess who got her way?
At any rate, I pretty much let her handle the entire operation. I supervised, of course, imparting the extent of my culinary wisdom which took roughly half a minute. The main thing she didn't know was how NOT to follow a recipe. And believe me, I had a dickens of a time explaining how this is done:
"Caroline, trust me. It doesn't matter how much vanilla goes into that batter. It's a conspiracy anyway, measuring spoons."
Needless to say, she didn't trust me.
So I had to stand there while she cracked precisely two eggs, went molecular with the baking powder, and dipped the measuring cup into the flour tin, scraping it off evenly with the edge of a butter knife.
Franchement, but Mummy could have used a darkened room and a little aqua vitae after that!
Later that day, Caroline and Izzy assured me they could handle making the icing all by themselves, which is code for you will harsh our buzz in the kitchen, Mum. Like a fool, I consented, forgetting to lay down the one and only ultimatum I insist upon when it comes to the concoction of icing: namely, that it not exceed the depth and intensity of the watermelon colors.
Wouldn't you know it? Just my luck.
Good thing I despise vivid icing so much I only ate four.