Jesse and the girls made me the most delicious chocolate cake ever. It tasted fabulous. And it was totally worth all the chaos in the kitchen. After the dishes were piled in the sink, the chocolate drips wiped from the countertops, and the smoke aired from the house, we got to enjoy big ole slices of ooey gooey chocolate goodness.
I think Jesse's exact words were, "I hate that cake. I never want to look at it again. I'm throwing away the recipe. I'm never doing this again."
So, yeah, there were some difficulties along the way. My observations from the peanut gallery where I sat not lifting a finger were entertaining to say the least, frustrating at times. I wanted to help out so badly, but I also knew he and the kids wanted to do this for me. How could I take that away from them?
All three girls were tasked with duties, from buttering pans to stirring the dry ingredients; finding pans and whisks to keeping little brother out of the oven. When Jesse told me to unplug the smoke detector, I hardly batted on eye. Nothing like watching my husband of thirteen years muttering under his breath while scraping out the burned, overflowed batter off the oven floor. I will say he maintained excellent composure throughout the whole ordeal.
And the result tasted fabulous. It resembled the cow pies I used to avoid while playing in east Texas pastures as a kid. But it was absolutely delicious. So rich that I almost made myself sick on the piece I ate. I was also informed that I really didn't want to know how much butter and sugar were in the thing, or that the ratio of sugar to flour was about two to one.
He's right. Ignorance was total chocolate bliss! And the love I have for my guy and my kiddos is just as rich as that cake.
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