In the continued absence of pastry production by the lone readership of this blog, I'm forced down the cliched and narcissistic path of rambling on about my progeny. Dear reader, if you wish to have your ego flattered with stunning visuals of your cakes accompanied by florid praise, then you'd better get baking. And taking photos. You're rather better at that than I am too. Otherwise, it's rehashes of stuff that you already know about children with whom you are intimately familiar.
Anyhoo, a couple mornings ago, my older son sat at the breakfast table, looked at me pensively and declared "I wish we were dwarves. Then we could mine minerals and we could be really rich (pause) and get really dirty (longer pause) and live underground" I'm rather proud, and twenty years from now when his definitive ethnography of dwarven subcultures is released, I'll be the first to buy a copy. Or more likely, given the living situation of most ethnographers of dwarves and their ilk, I'll receive a number autographed hardcovers as payment in kind for room and board.
My younger son's obsessions are currently more mechanical in nature, with a particular focus on garbage trucks. He's learned from one of his books that (i) garbage trucks eat trash, and (ii) the grosser the garbage, the better it tastes. This could prove to be somewhat of a wrinkle in our attempts to stop him from reaching into the organic recycling bin to eat surplus frosting from one of Lisa's baking projects (phew - managed to stay marginally on topic with blog title). However, it is very amusing when I floss his teeth, as he demands inspection rights on any substance that has been lodged in there, and then, after identifying it appropriately ('dirty diapers', 'yucky yams', etc.), insists on scarfing it down. Lovely.
Now, dear reader, please bake more pastries or I shall be forced to share my opinions on the weather.
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