Yesterday I stood at the bakery counter at our local grocery store and peered into the kitchen. Giant floor mixers, a massive wood prep table for pastry, big coolers and machines for turning titanic amounts of flour into delectables. I would love to be let free in that kitchen for a day. As I waited to get my cupcakes packaged up I imagined a post-Apocalyptic world where I could hole up in this kitchen with a few hundred pounds of supplies and feed myself. Then my mind wandered to the difficulties of electric appliances and a post-Apocalyptic world where the folks running the power station had turned to zombies or dust. Now when you see me standing glassy-eyed at the grocery counter while the clerk says, “Sir…sir!” you’ll know what I’m thinking about.
This morning my wife told me that Toddler Harbat had gotten into the fridge herself, eaten my cupake (see paragraph above) and skimmed all the fruit off my wife’s fruit tart. When my wife asked her, “Did you eat my birthday fruit tart?” TH burst into tears and hid her head under a pillow. Ten minutes later I called up and was put on speakerphone so I could “inquire” about the situation. I heard mumbled wailing and was told TH was still crying and wedging herself in a corner of the couch, tick-style headfirst. I suppose this means she feels guilty and the lesson is learned. But I really wanted that cupcake.