Happy Birthday, Baby Girl

“Emma. What in the world are you doing?”

I looked up at Chris standing in the doorway of the kitchen, squinting at me in the bright lights. His hair was rumpled with sleep.

“I’m baking a birthday cake, obviously.”

He blinked at me, as though that hadn’t computed. It probably hadn’t. “Why?”

“Because our daughter is turning one tomorrow. Or,” I looked at the clock on the microwave “I guess today. Oh my god, can you believe we have a one-year-old? It’s crazy.”

“What’s crazy is you trying to bake a cake in the middle of the night. Come back to bed.”

“I’m right in the middle of it. I can’t leave it.” I motioned to the bowls and pans around me and the sink full of dirty dishes.

Chris stared at the mess I’d made, then back at me. “I…you’re a terrible baker. Self-professed. Why on god’s green earth are you baking a cake? Why can’t we let someone else do that?”

“Because our only child is turning one only once and I want to do the cake.”

“You’re pregnant. She is not our only child.”

“But she only gets to turn one once.”

He sighed and scrubbed his hands with his face. “There’s no talking you out of this, is there.”

“You know me better than that.”

“Unfortunately, I do.” He walked over to the sink and turned on the water. “I’m going to start washing, at least, so these aren’t cluttering up the sink and getting in your way.” He looked around again. “I didn’t even know we had this many baking dishes.”

“We didn’t. I had to get more.”

His hands stilled momentarily. “Of course, you did.” He shook his head slightly as he started to scrub the hardened batter in one of the bowls. “How many cakes are you making? It definitely looks like you’ve made more than one here.”

“Well, I forgot sugar in the first one. The second one burned, and the third didn’t rise.”

He turned to look at me, his mouth forming the words “third one.” “Exactly how many have you baked, Emma?”

I felt my face warm. “The one in the fridge is cake number six.”

“Six?! At what point do you throw in the towel and admit defeat?”

“Never. I’m going to do this until I get it right,” I said stubbornly.

He looked up at the ceiling. “Or until the country runs out of flour.”

“Oh, I got a twenty-five-pound bag. We should be good for a while.”

He gave me a look. “What about everyone else?”

“Well, they can figure something else out. Use cornmeal or something. Go gluten free.”

He made a face. “So, what exactly are you making that’s so difficult?” He frowned down at the bowl he was scrubbing. “And is it made with concrete?”

I grinned at him. “No, I found a recipe online for a chocolate éclair cake. It’s basically a giant chocolate éclair, sort of. Choux pastry on the bottom, then pastry cream, then a whipped cream topping with a chocolate syrup drizzle on top. Doesn’t that sound amazing?”

He stared at me. “You know how to make choux pastry and pastry cream?”

“Well, not exactly. That was the problem with cake four. The cream curdled. But I think I figured it out now. That’s why six is going to be perfect. I think I’ve got the choux down from cake three, and the cream from five. And I’m using bottled chocolate syrup.”

“Thank goodness for small favors,” he muttered, running water over the newly clean bowl to rinse it. “Why didn’t you try to make something that’s easier?”

“Because I love chocolate eclairs,” I shrugged. “And why not make something for her birthday that everyone will enjoy?”

“Because this recipe sounds ridiculously complicated,” he pointed out. “If you wanted chocolate eclairs, you could have just, I don’t know, bought a bunch of eclairs and stacked them up. Everyone would have enjoyed that.”

“That’s no fun,” I protested. I stirred the bowl with my pastry cream, peeking inside to study it. I thought it needed a little longer. “Besides, I watched a LOT of cooking shows while I was on bedrest at the end of my pregnancy. So, I’m basically a baking expert now.”

He snorted inelegantly. “Oh, sure. That’s how it works. If I want to become an expert in law, I’ll just watch a bunch of legal shows.”

“You laugh, but I could probably get away with murder from watching all those murder shows. Maybe even practice basic medicine,” I teased. “As long as no one comes in with anything worse than a cut on their leg.” I shuddered. “I don’t handle other people’s injuries well.”

“You don’t handle your own injuries well,” he pointed out. He was back to chiseling away at something, a look of determination on his face. “I hope you’ll let someone else make the cake next time.”

“Our children only get one first birthday,” I reminded him. “What kind of mother would I be if I let someone else make their cakes?”

“A kind one?”

I huffed. My pastry cream looked right. I carefully tasted it. I made a face. Warm custard wasn’t my favorite, but otherwise, it tasted ok. I carefully removed the bowl from the pot it was set into and placed it into a previously prepared ice bath to cool it down more quickly. I started stirring once it was stable.

“Your mom didn’t make you birthday cakes?”

“No, she had the sense to recognize that baking was not her strong suit and had other people do it for her. And we never suffered for it.”

I rolled my eyes. “So, you never had a homemade birthday cake, and now you’re pooh-poohing my attempt at making one for our kid.”

“I’m not pooh-poohing it. I’m here, supporting it. I just think, perhaps, you should have picked something simpler. More achievable in a reasonable amount of time. Maybe a box mix.” He flashed me a grin.

I stuck my tongue out at him. “You are going to try a small piece of this when we’re done tonight and then you are going to regret ever doubting me, sir. You are going to cry salty tears of remorse.”

“Sure I am.”

I kicked out at him with one leg while still stirring from my spot beside the stove. He yelped, my cold foot grazing his warm thigh. I laughed when he turned around, ready to flick water at me.

“No, don’t get water in my pastry cream!” I shrieked, shielding it with my body. “You’ll ruin it and I’ll have to start all over.”

“Oh, hell no.” He dropped his hands immediately. “Then we’ll never get to bed.” He stood at the sink, and I stared at him over my shoulder, my body hunched over the bowl of pastry cream. He stared back at me, thinking. We were at a stalemate. I could see the wheels turning in his head.

“I’m still stirring,” I warned, when he started across the kitchen towards me, his hands outstretched. “You can’t do anything to endanger the cake or its components.”

He rolled his eyes at me, and he wrapped his arms around me from behind, fitting his body against mine like a puzzle piece. “Your feet are cold, so that makes me think the rest of you is probably cold. Why aren’t you wearing your socks?” He rested his cheek against the side of my head and cupped his hands around my belly. I already had a substantial belly, even though I was only about three and a half months pregnant.

“Well, the ones I want to wear are dirty.”

“The ones I made you?” he asked.

I nodded. “They’re so soft, it’s like walking on silk. I wouldn’t be mad if you made me more.”

He grinned and turned his head, so he was kissing my ear. “I could probably find a way to make that happen.”

I craned my neck to kiss his mouth, momentarily stopping my stirring. I reached up and tangled my fingers in his hair, loving the way it felt, all soft and wild without any product to tame it. His arms tightened around me, pulling me closer into his chest.

I pulled away after a moment and I gestured back to the bowl. “I think it’s ready to be put in the choux part,” I said breathlessly.

“Oh. Right. We were making a cake.” He looked a little glassy eyed.

I grinned at him. “We already made the baby it’s for.”

“We did that twice,” he grinned, looking a little pleased with himself. I snorted a laugh and pushed him out of the way to get to the refrigerator.

I pulled out the pan with the choux pastry crust and chocolate ganache spread in the bottom. Chris studied it.

“That looks thicker than chocolate syrup,” he commented.

“Well, I forgot to mention it. I had to make chocolate ganache. That was the problem with cake five. But there is chocolate syrup on the top of the whipped cream that goes on top of the pastry cream.”

He ran a hand over his face. “Good grief.”

“It’s a lot of steps. But I’m almost there. The whipped cream is in the fridge already, with the chocolate syrup.”

He nodded. “Well, let’s get this show on the road. I’m tired and I sleep better when you’re in the bed.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What do you do when you’re out of town?”

“I make a you out of pillows.”

“Does it work?”

“No.”

I grinned. “Good.”

“I tried dressing a pillow in that old sleep shirt you used to wear,” he commented, as I started to carefully spread the pastry cream over the chocolate ganache “and it sort of worked, because your scent lingered on the shirt, but then I got all these weird feelings for a pillow.”

I laughed. “I wondered where that shirt went.”

“Into my travel bag. I still have it.”

“And you say you’re not sentimental,” I teased softly, smoothing out the top of the pastry cream and reaching for the whipped cream next.

“I never said that. Someone might have accused me of that at one point, but I never claimed it.” He took the pastry cream bowl and started to wash it.

It didn’t take long to finish up the cake and then we both stood back and looked at my handiwork. I smiled, ridiculously pleased with it.

“So?” I asked, nudging his ribs with my elbow. “It looks great, right?”

“It looks delicious,” he admitted. “But how does it actually taste?”

I gave him the stink eye. “Well, get some plates and let’s try it.”

“You don’t care that it’ll be missing two pieces?”

“Not even a little bit.”

He laughed softly and grabbed two plates and forks while I carefully cut two small pieces from the edge that was less attractive. I served him and we stood at the counter. I watched him as he took his bite first, waiting for his reaction.

His eyes went wide, then his face contorted.

“Well?” I asked. “What? What do you think?”

He stared at me for a long moment. “It’s…good,” he finally managed around a mouthful. It was like he didn’t want to swallow.

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Is it supposed to be so buttery? And salty?”

“I…salty?” I asked, confused. I took a bite of my own and nearly gagged. It was a salt bomb. I stared at it, horrified. I looked up at him. “Oh no. I must have over whipped the cream and used salt instead of sugar.”

He stared back at me for a long moment, then sighed. “I guess we start over?”

“I’ll get the eggs and flour.”

“I’ll start washing the dishes. Again.”

I grinned. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too, dearest.”