We sat on the wool recliners in the heat of the afternoon. The sun pressed against our foreheads. The fan was whirring softly, but it did nothing.
"It's hot," Ben said to me.
There we had sat for about two hours, and there we would sit an eternity more lest something should happen. It wasn't likely. Ben's head drooped in my direction. "This is boring," he said.
"What if we bake something?" I suggested. Baking. The remedy for all boredoms: an activity you can eat. I pawed through the pantry in my mind... we had cookie dough, muffin batter, cake batter, instant Jell-O...
"Baking is good," Ben confirmed. We sat a moment longer in my sticky, itchy living room, then peeled ourselves from our moistened imprints and felt a rejuvenating wave of clean air across our backs as we slogged to the kitchen.
I took down the various mixes we had neatly disheveled in the pantry. They would ensure that we had something to do, without having to work for it. Scratch? Why would I ever want to defy Betty Crocker like that, anyhow? I raised a brow at the brownie mix.
"Let's not do brownies," I said. "I somehow always manage to burn them."
"You must be doing something wrong," Ben replied. I pulled down a box for making 'Funfetti Cake', whatever fluffy sort of embarrassment of a pastry that was. On the box the Rainbow Cake was white, with little blotches of color inside. I asked Ben, "What do you think?" To which he replied, "It's colorful."
I got out the metal bowl, measuring cups and spoons, milk, and eggs. Ben filled one of the measuring cups with water and poured it in after I had unloaded the powdery, sweet-smelling mix into the dented bowl. I began cracking in the eggs, feeling the sick, bubbly yolk lubricate my fingers. It was no matter; there was cake to be had.
"My hands are wet," Ben said, holding up his dripping hands. A few drops fell onto the kitchen floor, but it was just water. I pointed him towards the dish towel hanging by the faucet, and he dried his hands before joining me at the counter.
After all the ingredients were added, mixed, separated, whisked and whatnot, I poured the delightfully scented mix into two separate cake pans and slid them both into the oven, but not before dipping my index finger into one to enjoy just a taste of the raw nectar of our labors. Ben smirked and jammed his thumb into the other one, scooping out a fairly large dollop of batter. He grinned sheepishly as a few drops fell onto the kitchen floor. But they were almost the same color as the floor, and hardly noticeable.
We bode our time waiting by cleaning. I handed Ben a wet paper towel and he absorbed the spillage from the countertop. Meanwhile, I handled the dishes. The sweet perfume of our cake crept maliciously out of the oven and infiltrated the entire house. "Smells good," Ben marveled. I nodded.
The timer suddenly hiccuped a warning. "The cake's about done," Ben said. Moments later, the timer gave a full-throttle ring that shot through the thick kitchen air. I opened the oven and probed my head inside to confirm that our cakes were still there. They were. Beads of sweat were starting to form on my brow, so I swiftly grabbed an oven mit and removed both trays.
The first cake turned out perfectly; a heavenly golden yellow on top, smooth terrain with titillating appeal. The other cake...
"One of them's burnt," Ben mourned.
"Oh well, we still have the one," I sighed. "It'll just have to be a one-layer cake." And that was okay... why bother trying to choke down a cake that was burnt just because we felt obligated?
I set the good cake on the counter to cool and turned to get a can of frosting. Vanilla would be nice. Sprinkles, too, maybe. Just to liven it up. I walked back toward the counter but suddenly slipped and fell. I banged my head on the edge of the oven door, ricocheted momentarily and then hit the floor with a devastating slap. Throbbing pain pooled at the base of my head as my nerves rallied throughout my palms. "Ohh!" I moaned. I put my hand to the back of my head, and retrieved red. "You're bleeding," Ben said from the other side of the counter. He came over and helped me to my feet. Thank goodness for Ben. Had I been seriously injured he would have been my lifeline.
"I'm okay," I said as he pushed a stool toward me. I clambored into it, and grabbed a napkin to press against my head. "It's just a small cut."
I looked down at the counter. "Ben!" I exclaimed. "You cut yourself a piece of the cake already? I thought we were going to frost it."
Ben laughed. "Guess I'm just a bad friend."
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