When I was six-years-old, my sister and I spent a week vising my dad. Dad and my sister decided they wanted to make a carrot cake for dessert one afternoon, so they went down to the grocery store for a box of Duncan Hines cake mix, a can of frosting, a carton of eggs and a bottle of vegetable oil.
When they came back, Dad promised I could help make it. I wasn’t a fan of carrot cake (I was and still am a loyal Funfetti man), but he knew I really liked working in the kitchen with him, so I was excited about it anyway.
“It says ‘stir by hand’” I loudly proclaimed from the red milk crate Dad dragged out so I could reach the kitchen counter, reading the instructions from the back of the box as if they would be utterly lost without them.
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