Not Ivory, Opal

Ella loves cake. Well, dessert. She watches all the baking shows with Phoebe, really leaning in to the ones with kids — which are absolutely charming, by the way. Not even sure you know, but Valerie Bertinelli is living her best life.

Anyway, the other evening Ella told me she was going to make a cake for Phoebe and I for our anniversary. She said it as a statement, but I could tell it was also a question. Ella will be 12 in January. There is probably a list of things she should and could be doing on her own, and dagnabbit, making a cake is likely one of them.

“Cool,” I said.

Ella was surprised and pleased.

“As much as it’s for you and Mom,” she said with a cake-eating grin. “It’s also for me.”

“I know.”

So yesterday Ella came home with a cake recipe on a couple index cards. She got it from a friend at school who I guess is a baker.

Kids these days.

“I’m going to make that cake now,” she said putting away her giant backpack. Again, it was a statement needing a confirmation.

“Cool,” I said. “Just don’t make a mess.”

And I let her be. I didn’t hover. Didn’t check in. Sure, I showed her how to set the oven and pulled stuff down from high shelves. But the mixer I asked Phoebe about the other…