I was minding my own business, getting a lecture from my grandpa about volume control while lurking through the house when I got a fabulous idea. I decided to create an edible cake for him. I announced this to change the subject but he still wanted to discuss my “storming around” the house. In my defense I wasn’t storming at all. I was galloping to gain momentum to slide across the wood floor like a professional hockey player. With enough momentum I can get all the way down the hallway if the rug or wall doesn’t get in my way. One time while I was sliding down the hall Makayla barged through the front door and I was sliding at such a high speed that as she flung the door open, I slid right into it and fell backwards. Last night I went to slide down the hallway but I forgot I wasn’t wearing socks and just kind of skidded until I fell down into a weird belly flop in the middle of the floor. Makayla looked out from her room and looked at me and said, “Are you trying to do the worm again?” I was pretty embarrassed about that and told her I was “stretching.” She believed me. Why I just so happened to be stretching in the hallway, on the floor, sprawled on my belly must not have been suspicious to her.
Anyway, I told my grandfather perhaps my volume was not my problem but his since he’s got oddly large ears and he told me he was hearing impaired and I conceded that ear size has nothing to do with ability to hear, I suppose unless you were born without ears, and agreed to be quieter when sliding down the hallway. After dinner I created my cake. At first I was going to make it from scratch but was pretty much forbidden to do so since my grandma was thoughtful enough to buy me those easy little box cakes. Apparently she doesn’t want me blowing up, imploding, igniting, or creating un-oven friendly things in her oven. My grandfather voiced amazement that I was even allowed in the kitchen and I chose to be the bigger person and ignore his comment. Since the lame box cake was ridiculously simple to make it turned out to be edible. After I iced it I hollered to Grandpa three times, “Would you like a piece of this cake?” He didn’t answer. I sent each child to ask and he didn’t answer. Grandma asked and he didn’t answer. Grandma finally said, “He’ll have his later.” Fair enough. Makayla announced, while eating her cake, “Mommy finally made a normal cake!” My grandmother thought this was funny. After my children were done eating their cake my grandpa went into the kitchen, peered down at the cake and said, “What’s this?”
“That’s an edible cake that I created,” I said, “Y’all all laughed at me. And now look.”
“No one offered me a piece,” he said, basically pouting.
I rolled my eyes at him, “We all four asked you if you wanted a piece.”
“I figured you wanted it with ice cream anyway,” Grandma said.
“Like we haven’t learned his odd habits in the entirety of our acquaintance with him,” I said to grandma, then to him, “We’ve known you for a year or two. You eat your cake with ice cream.”
“Didn’t no one offer me a piece,” he said, just to be annoying, “I’m hearing impaired.”
“You hear just fine when I’m walking quiet like an Indian down the hallway,” I said, “but I offer you a piece of your favorite dessert three times, have two children and your wife offer you some cake, and you claim to have never heard these offerings. How odd.”
He mocked my “Indian walking” and said my galloping down the hall made grandma bounce in her chair. He demonstrated what said bouncing looked like and appeared to be having a demon exorcised. I don’t gallop that damn hard. I ignored his performance and thought about the horrible cake episode in “The Help,” and decided against making such a comment. That would have just been in bad taste.
No comments:
Post a Comment