Camping off Block Island and other unmentionables
Dancing Shoes


On Sunday she tore the kitchen up and declared the pantry a disgrace.

On Monday morning she presented me with a shopping list scrawled on the back of an envelope.

I raised both eyebrows because I can't raise just one and she held out a cookbook for kids I bought five years ago hoping the nanny might work with her (nope).

Don't you think you ought to let me use the oven? You TOLD me you started baking in middle school because YOUR mother let you do whatever you wanted as long as you cleaned up and didn't burn the house down.


On Monday night I brought everything home but said, not on Tuesday, you have dance.

I will admit to the following:

I told her to mix all the dry ingredients thoroughly because it really matters, that getting crisco out of a measuring cup will require your fingers and we'll discuss water displacement later. I told her that if aluminum foil got on the induction burners and they got turned on, say good-bye to the stove. I said that butter really does have to be at room temperature and that microwaving instead will mess up the chemistry. That's it. My five minutes of on the phone coaching possibly construed as helicopter parenting depending on your point of view.

Tonight I came home to this.. Utter and complete competence. She was just finishing up.

The funny thing is she met me at the door and said, well. I messed up that first batch but number two is doing better and I'm going to get it right on three (it was apparently all about the oven temp and timing).