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“Ebb? What’s this?”
I found it when I was cleaning out Ebb’s backpack (which I should really do more often. I found not only a crushed and moldy half-eaten peanut butter sandwich, but also a squashed and juicy orange in the depths of the bag) (neither my nose, nor my hands will ever be the same). The paper is bright green, crumpled and stained with orange juice and other things that are less identifiable.
My scatterbrained daughter tumbles out of her room, flaps her wings twice to right herself, and then gallops over to me, giggling.
“Yes papa?” she asks, all big eyes and innocence.
“What,” I repeat, shaking the maltreated paper for emphasis, “is this?”
Ebb looks at it, and I swear I can see her mentally scratching her head. Then her eyes light up and she says, “Oh! Miss Sherry asked me to give it to you!”
I fight hard to keep from rolling my eyes. “And when was this?” I ask.
Again, the cogs turn in my seven-year old’s brain. I can almost smell them smoking (not as unlikely as you’d think, given my children’s draconic ancestry). Finally she says, “Monday?”
“Is that a question?” I smirk.
She shakes her head. “It was Monday. I remember ‘cuz Nat swatted me with his tail right before snack time, and I started to cry and Miss Sherry said “Come on Pitches, it’s only Monday!” And she asked me to take you that paper just after I got my backpack out to get my snack.”
This time I lose the battle. My eyes roll almost of their own accord. Then I sigh. Ebb is Ebb. There’s no point in getting upset about things she can’t help.
Besides, I’ve asked the triplets’ teacher several times now to only send correspondence through Nat or Violet, so really, this is Miss Sherry’s fault.
Ebb’s not dumb, any more than her father is. She just has a very busy brain and is very good at not thinking about things she doesn’t want to think about. Also like her father. Speaking of…
“Simon!” I shout.
My husband emerges from our bedroom still buttoning his work shirt around his wings. He’s been working double shifts for the last week since the day bartender at the Whistling Ogre is out with a bad case of leaf blight. I’ve been doing my best to keep Simon’s few home hours worry free, but I’m out of my depth with the content of this note.
“Yeah babe?” he mumbles, attention clearly elsewhere as he struggles with a difficult button. I sigh. Then I try again.
“Simon, have you heard anything about a cake sale being put on by the childrens’ school?”
That catches his attention. Baked goods always do. “Cake sale? What’s that? They selling cakes?”
“That would be implied by the name, yes,” I say dryly. “But not only cakes. Any sort of baked goods. My sisters’ school used to have these all the time to raise money for activities.”
Simon boops me on the nose with one taloned finger. “Don’t be a prat. You know I didn’t grow up with posh shi—.” I hiss at him and he stops the curse mid-word. “S–stuff,” he finishes lamely.
“Cake sales are hardly posh, love,” I tell him. “Their point is to raise money the school is lacking, after all.”
Simon shrugs. “Yeah. But they only work in neighborhoods where folk can afford to buy the cakes, yeah?” he points out and I wince, conceding his point.
“Well, even so. We’re being asked to supply some baked goods for the sale. All the parents are.”
Simon smiles widely. “Well, that’s no problem then. When is the sale?”
My shoulders slump in relief. I’m saved. Simon is the one with all the hands-on skills in our family. What chance did I ever have to learn to cook? I mean, I’m better than I used to be. When Simon and I first started living together, he liked to say that I couldn’t boil water without burning it. Now I can at least cook porridge and scramble eggs. But baked goods are outside my repertoire.
“It’s Monday,” I say gratefully. But then my stomach sours when Simon’s face falls.
“Oh fuck, I’m sorry, Baz. My next day off isn’t until Tuesday, and you know I’m working doubles every day.”
I wince (and not only at the uncensored curse word). I do know. And I’m not going to be selfish enough to demand that Simon spend his eight hours per day of sleeping/ eating/ bathing/ everything time doing silly household chores, when I’ve got nothing better to do.
It’s not that I don’t work. I do. I’m a proudly published author these days, in fact. My treatise contrasting ancient and modern spells is well respected, even if it’s not earning us any money. Not enough mages to buy books. But it’s the only book I’ll admit to writing.
It’s my gay romance novels that actually pay the bills.
No, I do have work, and deadlines. It’s just that I don’t need to work usual hours, so I’ve been shouldering all the school and parenting burdens while Simon’s having to work so much.
“Fu—,” I stop myself just in time. Simon gives me an amused look. “What’ll I do then?” I ask helplessly.
“You could buy something at the shop?” Simon suggests.
“I could not!” I glare, affronted. “I will not be shown up in front of Mary Dalrimple by bringing store-bought sweets!”
Mary Dalrimple is the head of the PTA at the children’s school. Soon after our triplets were born (hatched), it suddenly occurred to people of some importance in the World of Mages, that a primary school for magelings might be a good idea. I know it was Daphne and Lady Ruth who got the movement started, and I’m grateful. I love my children, and I love spending time with them, but if I’d had to homeschool all three of them, I’d have gone out of my mind.
It was Simon’s idea, though, that it should be open to all magickal creatures. After all, he pointed out, if it was going to accept our children, part dragon as they were, it would hardly make sense to deny pixie and goblin and troll children.
Hence my problem with Mrs. Dalrimple.
She’s a brownie. A kitchen sprite. Which means she is naturally better than me at absolutely everything involving home care. And it stings when all the parents are socializing and she looks down her nose at me (which is quite a trick, since she’s two feet tall) because I let Violet wear her favorite tutu to school again or because Ebb’s school lunch is always peanut butter sandwiches (what? That’s all she’ll eat! I’d rather she be malnourished than not nourished at all) (besides, peanut butter is really quite nutritious if you overlook the high sugar content).
Simon knows about and is amused by my unspoken rivalry with the PTA chair, so all he does is smirk and shake his head. “Whatever, babe. I’ll have gran send you a recipe. Something simple.”
“Please,” I say. I’d be embarrassed at how desperate I sound, but Simon and I are too tightly bonded for us to ever feel self-conscious with each other. He gives me a warm smile and an even warmer kiss (curse wide-awake children and over-demanding night jobs) (If I had my druthers, I’d be spending my evening doing something much more…physical than baking).
~~*~~
Less than a half hour later, my cell phone dings to indicate an incoming text message. It’s Lady Ruth, and she seems to have included a photo of a tattered card. That’s odd.
I flick my thumb and forefinger apart to enlarge the photo and I realize that she’s sent me a picture of a recipe card. The title at the top just says ‘Grandad’s Brownies’. Before I can read through the recipe, another ding announces another text message.
Lady Ruth: Simon said you needed something simple to make for a school sale? This was my grandfather’s recipe, and I’ve always found it to be quick and easy. Will this work or would you like another?
I smile. Lady Ruth is the soul of helpfulness. I scan the recipe again, and while I frown a little (it needs two different kinds of chocolate? Why?), it looks very doable. I send her back my gratitude and vow to begin immediately.
Simon keeps our kitchen well stocked, so by the time I’ve ransacked the cupboards twice over, I’ve found everything on the ingredients list except the unsweetened chocolate and the walnuts. It says the walnuts are optional, so I’m content to leave them out. Too many people have tree-nut allergies these days anyway. But the chocolate…I stare at the recipe uneasily, wondering how essential that might be.
Finally I sigh. These are chocolate brownies, so the chocolate is probably mandatory. Time to pack up my trio of seven year olds and head out to the store. Thank Circe that they’re old enough now that they can choose to accept my ‘Nothing to See Here’ spell. Hopefully they won’t make such a spectacle of themselves that people will see them anyways.
~~*~~
One hour, two arguments, and three returns to the flat to collect forgotten items, and I’m finally browsing the aisles of the local Tesco. I’m looking uneasily at baking powder. I know I saw this same can on the shelf at home, but… do we have enough? I didn’t think to look inside. In fact, I didn’t think to look inside any of the various bags and boxes of ingredients we have at home.
It would be a nightmare to return home only to find there isn’t enough of one or more of the ingredients.
I pull out my phone and open Lady’ Ruth’s message with the recipe again, but before I can look at it, I have to shove the phone in my pocket in haste and leap to intercept Ebb’s nose dive towards the floor. She’d previously been sitting peaceful in the basket of the trolley but has now apparently decided to take up floor-diving. I manage to catch her by the hips as she plummets and plonk her back down in the cart on her rear. She pouts at me and I roll my eyes back at her. Violet and Nat, who are each clinging to the cart with one hand as I told them to do, smirk at their sister. Ebb blows a raspberry at them and reaches out to bop her brother on the head, and then the three of them start arguing again, in steadily escalating (and shrill) voices.
“Oh for snake’s sake,” I snap. “Can I please have just a single moment’s quiet? They continue to quarrel, oblivious, and Ebb’s ever rowdy temper is rising, as witnessed by her invisible tail lashing out and knocking over some cans of evaporated milk on the shelf nearest her.
“Enough!” I thunder, and all three children cringe and look at me, wide-eyed. I sigh and rub my forehead. This is what this cake sale nonsense has brought me to; yelling at my children like a common slattern in the middle of the baking aisle at Tesco.
Without another word, I move Nat to the back of the cart and indicate with a series of annoyed hand gestures that he is to hold on there, and then move Violet to the opposite side, mirroring him. Then I point and wait until Ebb sullenly turns around to face away from her siblings. Her arms are crossed and I can see her wings twitching under her shirt, but at least I finally have quiet.
I consult the recipe again, and then stare at the baking powder, frustrated. Finally I sigh. If we buy double what we need, we’ll eventually use it up, right? Somewhat heartened by my decision, I proceed to fill the cart with everything the recipe calls for, in quantities far exceeding what we probably need. I even throw in a couple of extra boxes of unsweetened chocolate, even though, since that’s what I came for, I know one box would be enough.
If it’s unsweetened, at least Simon won’t eat it before I can use it. I’ll have to hide it from the children, though.
~~*~~
Thank Crowley that I bought all those duplicate ingredients.
I can’t fathom why Lady Ruth said this was an easy recipe. This is the third batch I’ve tried. The first one, admittedly, failed through no fault of the recipe—it burnt to a crisp when I had to talk Ebb down off of the ceiling after Nat teased her to the point of tears. Nat thought the blackened brownies were brilliant and was all for using them anyways, but I have some standards.
The second batch smelt…funny. And not good funny. I only realized after it was baked that Fiona had dropped by while the batter was sitting out and vulnerable on the counter. My fucking aunt must have dropped some weed in our cake sale brownies!
The only reason she was able to accomplish that was because I was distracted by Ebb trying to adulturate the brownies with a giant gob of peanut butter.
The irony.
Weed brownies at a cake sale would certainly have created a sensation with Mrs. Dalrimple’s set. Just not the kind of sensation I’d prefer to make.
Actually, the second failure wasn’t the recipe’s fault either.
This one still doesn’t look right. The color is off. At least the weed brownies looked brown. I peruse the recipe again, for the third time, and I can’t figure out what there is in the ingredients that would make the brownies turn purple. That leaves only one possibility.
“Violet!” I shout.
“Yes, daddy?” my little girl asks, appearing like magic from under the kitchen table.
“Did you add something to the brownies?” I try to keep my tone gentle, but I’m exhausted and frazzled, and I’m sure that shows in my voice, because Violet’s face falls into a pout.
“They were ugly, daddy! All brown and lumpy. I wanted them to be pretty for the cake sale!”
I rub at the spot between my eyes where my family is definitely causing me premature wrinkles. “Show me what you put in the batter, Violet.”
She pulls her hands out from behind her back. Hands that are now stained with color: one red, one blue. She’s holding the coordinating food dye bottle in each hand. I gingerly accept the bottles from her, trying to avoid getting too much of the dye on my fingers. They’re both empty, other than the drops of dye on the outside of the bottle, now staining my fingers. They were full this morning. I sigh again.
“Miss Havisham taught us that blue and red make purple!” Violet says. “Purple is a lot prettier than brown.”
I bury my face in my hands. Too late, I remember the food dye on them.
I guess this failure wasn’t the recipe’s fault either.
~~*~~
Once I finally have one viable plate of brownies, it’s past midnight and Simon’s still not home. I sent the children off to bed hours ago. I’m woken out of a fitful sleep hours later when Simon crawls into bed, but he’s so exhausted, poor man, that he curls up around me and falls right to sleep without even a kiss hello. He’s already gone again when I’m dragged out of a sound sleep at 7 a.m. by the dulcet tones of three seven year olds squabbling over whose turn it is to wake me.
Of course I pretend to be asleep when Nat slips through the door. Who do you think I am?
So, after the obligatory pounce and cuddle session (Nat pounces and then his sisters join him for morning cuddles with dad), I drag myself yawning out of bed. I drift out to the kitchen to start a pot of porridge for the children when I see it. The plate. The plate which, last night, held 12 handsome looking brownies for a cake sale (my fourth attempt). The plate which, now, contains only some pathetic brownie crumbs.
I moan, too wretched for words.
It wasn’t the children. They knew quite well how much trouble they’d be in if they touched those brownies. But, just to confirm that, I texted Simon:
Me: Simon. Dearest. Love of my life. Did you eat the cake sale brownies?
Snow Dragon:...
Snow Dragon: Oh shit
Yes, my beloved husband actually replied with ellipses.
He was frantically apologetic, of course. But with the hours he’s been working, it’s no wonder he’d forgotten the purpose of the brownies. It’s likely my fault. I’ve been leaving plates of food out for him on the nights when he gets home after I’m in bed, and he had no reason to believe this wasn’t more of the same.
I slump onto the sofa and bury my head in my hands. Why is this so hard?
The first hint I have of my children’s presence is a soft touch on my cheek. Ebb’s claw tip is tapping gently against my face. I look up and see that all three of them have come up while I was having my pity party and are eyeing me with identical looks of concern.
“Dad,” Ebb says, “we can help you make more brownies.”
My eyes widen as I take in the way Violet and Nat are eagerly nodding in agreement. Then I smile, feeling a little emotional and a lot stupid. I’d forgotten, in all the stress and one-upmanship that is a primary school parent event, who all of this is for in the end. My children. My babies, who have wanted to help from the beginning, but who I’ve shut down constantly in my determination to be the best.
I’m an arse.
I look from child to child. They’re all three so eager that their tails are wagging behind them and their wings are twitching. Impulsively, I throw my arms wide and all three children crowd in for a group hug.
I do actually have tears in my eyes when we break apart from our family huddle.
“You know what, loves? I’d be delighted to have your help. In fact, I think we ought to create three batches of brownies, one from each of you.”
Their eyes widen in delight and Ebb crows, her exuberance so powerful that she lifts off into the air a couple of feet.
~~*~~
Monday morning, I line all three children up in front of me, each child holding their own personalized plastic container of brownies. They look smart and handsome, as any children of Simon and myself should.
Last night, I took myself out of the driver's seat and took the time to carefully instruct and guide each child in the creation of their dessert. I didn’t restrict their creativity except in any way that might have been harmful or disgusting for the buyers.
Ebb’s brownies have a peanut butter ribbon and peanut butter frosting. Violet’s are lovely, with a tiny (edible, I checked) flowers adorning the crest of a lilac swirl of icing on each chocolatey square. I was pretty sure that any purple flavor wouldn’t go well with chocolate, so, after another trip to the store to restock, we settled for adding food dye in her chosen mix of red and blue to vanilla icing.
Nat, who is currently obsessed with fire (definitely my child), had to be dissuaded from finishing off his brownies in the flames of the burner. Instead, we used an empty tin to cut some of his into circles and then cut some more into long thin sticks for logs, and arranged his brownies into the shape of a fire ring. Then, for verisimilitude, we used some of the same vanilla icing from Violet’s brownies and tinted it orange (mixing red and yellow, naturally) and piped flamelets of orange frosting across all of the log brownies. It turned out rather nice, if I do say so myself.
I’m just about to step into my shoes to escort my offspring to school when there is a gentle knock at the door. I frown. That’s not Simon, he has a key. And he’s never done anything gentle in his life (other than me). And there’s no near neighbors; The Pitch family owns this whole suite of flats, and when my aunt moved in, she evicted all the other tenants on her floor so there’d be nobody to complain about Joe Strummer played at top volume at three a.m.
I sigh. It’s probably someone trying to get me to buy a cell phone plan or sign a petition or somesuch. I open the door, a caustic comment on my lips, only to fall back a step in surprise.
It’s Daphne. She’s carrying a cardboard baker’s box, neatly tied with twine. “Mum!” I say, caught completely flatfooted. “I wasn’t expecting you!”
Daphne smiles. “I know you weren’t, dear. But Ruth told me at cards last night about the cake sale at the children’s school, and I wanted to help out.”
Now I smile. That’s just like Daphne. She’d never put an oar in where it wasn’t wanted, but she’s always there in the background doing everything she can to make sure you win the race anyway. That analogy got away from me.
It’s at that moment that the triplets emerge from their room, and Violet sees Daphne first. She shouts “Grandmum!” That’s all it takes. All three children are wrapped around Daphne’s legs in an instant. I can’t make out distinct words in their happy babble, but it’s clear that they’re overjoyed to see her. As it should be.
Daphne manages to extricate herself while giving each child its own hug, one armed. “I brought some biscuits for your cake sale,” she announces cheerfully. The children chorus to see, and no wonder. Daphne’s a dab hand with an icing bag, and her biscuits are almost more art than food.
She sets the box down on the kitchen table and undoes the string, opening the box to reveal—the children. No, I’m not kidding. She’s created biscuits in the shapes of dragon children, and each biscuit is painted to resemble one of the triplets. There’s a dragonet in a violet tutu for Violet, A dragonet with flyaway curls and big stomping boots for Ebb, and a dragonet wreathed in flames for Nat.
She lifts those biscuits off the top, and beneath, I see that she’s painted the rest to resemble other children at the school; there’s goblin and centaur and troll and mage children biscuits. They’re brilliant. The parents will flock to buy the biscuits that resemble their own children. Daphne must have looked through the class portraits we’ve sent her to see what our kids’ classmates look like.
She hands each of my children their own dragonet biscuit and the children squeal their glee and immediately begin to beg to be allowed to eat them. I waver between insisting they put off the inevitable sugar rush until after school, and letting them have their fun now, when their joy is at its height. In the end, I allow them to eat the sweets, after I get a photo of each child with his or her biscuit to show Simon.
Daphne offers to help us deliver the biscuits and brownies to the sale, and I gratefully accept, since I’ve got enough on my hands managing three children and all their various equipment for school. We’re nearly ready again to step out, when there’s a firm rap on the door.
“What in Circe’s name?” I wonder. Daphne’s closer to the door than me, so with a glance back for my permission (which I give with a confused nod), she opens it. Lady Ruth Salisbury is standing on the other side, holding a moderate sized cake box. Jamie is at her side, holding a massive cake box.
The children are ecstatic. They bounce around our latest visitors, shouting, “Great Grandmum! Uncle Jamie!” Ebb is overstimulated enough that she lifts off of the ground and continues her joyful dance in the air. I rescue her tray of brownies before they can plummet to the floor from six feet up.
“Lady Ruth!” The words explode out of me, I’m so staggered. “I wasn’t—er, were we expecting you?” At this point, my mind is such a whirl that I can’t be certain that I haven’t forgotten some appointment.
“Oh, no, darling!” Ruth exclaims breezily. “I just got to thinking, after you mentioned the cake sale at the children’s school, that I had just finished my Sunday baking, and well, you know me. I baked far more than Jamie and I could eat.”
She pops open the top of the box she’s holding. “It’s my Lemon Crackle cake. This one's for you, loves,” she says to the children. When they chorus their excitement, she shakes her head and adds, “for after school, my dears,” and hands me the cake box amidst their disappointed moans. I deposit it on the counter for later. Then she waves a hand at the box Jamie’s carrying and announces airily, “I made a large batch also, in cupcake form. Those ought to be easier to sell than a whole cake.”
I smile at Lady Ruth’s subterfuge. She did not make cupcakes in her Sunday baking just for herself and Jamie. She specifically set out to make them for the children’s sale. I’m touched, and feeling a little teary at all the affection my family and Simon’s shows for my children.
We reorganize ourselves to walk the children to school (it’s not far). Ruth and Jamie offer to go with us. “I’d like to do my duty as a granduncle and buy lots of baked goods,” Jamie chuckles. As I’m reaching for the doorknob, it turns on its own under my fingers, and I hear a very familiar key in the lock.
“Simon!”
My husband slips through the door with a sheepish smile and one hand held suspiciously behind his back. But then he takes in the children with their brownies, Daphne with her biscuits and Ruth and Jamie with their cupcakes. His eyes get wider and wider as the shift from one surprise to the next.
“Holy sh—” he stops, not quite in time. The children giggle at the naughty word he mostly said. Simon’s flustered. He visibly gathers himself and tries again. “Holy ships, Baz, what’s all this?”
I laugh at him for his fumbled substitution and the children are all three giving him my famous smirk. They’re not fooled. They know exactly what he wanted to say. “It seems that, between the two of us, love, we have amazing relatives.”
Simon’s smile widens and softens at that, and I can see from the look in his eyes that he’s understood what happened.
“And what about you, my love,” I say archly. “Is there something hiding behind your back, perhaps?”
I don’t have to wait for Simon to think up a witty retort, because Nat’s been creeping around his father, and he shouts out, “Cherry scones!”
It’s my turn to go wide eyed. “You made scones? When did you have time?” I got him my cousin’s recipe years ago, and he’s absolutely perfected it. But they’re not quick nor easy to make.
His sheepish grin is back. “I felt bad that I couldn’t help. I talked Shepard into finishing my shift at the bar, and Penny let me use her kitchen to make these so I could bring you something for the cake sale in case nothing else worked out.”
I should be a bit narked at Simon for assuming that I’d fail, but recent experience has made me humble. Instead, I’m overwhelmed at Simon’s selfless act of using his hard won time off to help me look good in front of the PTA (additionally selfless because he’s donating the food he’d most like to keep) (I suspect he’ll be buying back most of those scones, actually). I don’t know what to do with all the feelings swelling up inside of me, so I upset everyone by bursting into tears.
It takes several precious minutes to assure everyone that, no, I’m not at all upset, that what they saw is my inability to handle too much joy. The children still cast suspicious looks my way as we stride down the walk towards their primary school. We look a proper parade: five adults escorting three dragon children and a ridiculous amount of baked goods.
They say food is love, and I’ve never felt that more than I feel it today. So many people love me, love my children that I’ll carry that fullness of heart with me for weeks, I think.
It doesn’t hurt that Mary Dalrimple’s jaw drops when she sees us all coming up to the cake sale table.
(And Simon does buy back two thirds of the scones).