Today is my husband's birthday. It's his last year of being "in his thirties," and I hope it's a good one for him.
At the grocery store yesterday, I loitered on the baking aisle staring at the rows and rows of all kinds of flour: all-purpose, self-rising, bread, cake, whole wheat, organic whole wheat...and I wondered where in the store they would have hidden the rye flour, since that was what I wanted and logic told me to look with the rest of the flour. Not there. And it didn't come jumping out at me a few aisles later, so, once more, I hold off on baking the darker breads my husband prefers.
The kids were all gleefully dancing around the cake mixes and icings.
"Let's get this one for Dad," suggested Billy.
"Dad asked for a cobbler for dessert, so I'm not making a cake," I informed him.
"Oh. Where are the cobbler mixes?" he wondered.
I sighed and explained that I was making one from scratch.
"Oh. Do I like cobbler?"
"I hope not!"