We Made Brownies

We made brownies today. It is the coldest day in my memory, and I was home alone with James for the late morning. I went out briefly to the store and to the garage across the street. We needed toilet paper and contact solution, neither of which you want to be out of during a state of emergency day. It's bad news to attempt a substitute for either. The Neon was also due for an inspection, so I dropped it off at the corner garage and trudged up the hill to our apartment. I don't think "snow" adequately covers what's happening outside right now. In my fat black copy of German Myths and Legends there are all sorts of words like "bifrost" and "rime." I'm not sure what those terms mean, but it has to be something like what's happening outside today.

James at two is a different sort of creature than James at 18 months. James at two is still sweet and happy and generally cooperative, but he is also becoming much more specific about what he wants. Today he wanted to bake something. He dragged one of the kitchen chairs out from behind the table, slid it across the linoleum to the counter, climbed on top, then opened the silverware drawer and began to pull out all of our measuring cups and spoons.

"James, do you want to make something?"

"Oh, yeah. EAT!"

And then he showed me a 1/2 tablespoon and nodded. I found our last box of brownie mix in the pantry behind the mountain of recycling I haven't taken out yet--it's very cold, you know--and set the oven to preheat. I poured the brownie mix into a bowl, and let James stir it with a spoon (be gentle, don't spill) while I greased the pan and searched for eggs in the refrigerator.

There was a little bit of fine brown powder spilled on the counter when I went back to him, but he hadn't been too messy. He went back to digging in the silverware drawer atop his chair while I mixed in the oil, water, and eggs. Brownies are so easy to make that even I can't mess them up. When I reached over James to get a clean spoon for mixing, he indicated that he wanted to stir as well.

"Just Daddy's going to stir the brownies for a minute."

This did not go over well. He leaned over my arms, attempting to put his spoon in the bowl, and then when I held it out of reach he tried to climb up my arms. I moved over to the other side of the sink, and he (whinily) resumed digging through the silverware drawer. A few seconds later he tipped the chair over backwards and crashed to the floor. He managed to land perfectly, but scared himself badly enough that I had to hold him and "there, there" for a few minutes. I put the chair away back at the table and went back to mixing the brownies. As the oven beeped, a sniffling James was dragging the chair back to the silverware drawer.

I scraped the batter out into the pan as he watched, still holding his spoon. Again, he wanted to do it too. I let him scrape a little bit, but when I went back to working on the spatula-layer, he started to cry again.

"Do again, do again!"

"No, Daddy needs to do the spatula part by himself."

He stuck his spoon in the pan and began to stir it.

"No James, that's going in the oven. Let me take your spoon."

I took the spoon away and put it in the sink. Whine, whine. Fuss, fuss. He reached into the silverware drawer and pulled out another clean spoon.

"James, don't get another spoon dirty. We're done stirring for now."

He stuck the spoon in the pan and began to stir it. By the time I'd put the new spoon in the sink he already had another one out and in the brownie mix.

"Okay, down you go."

I picked him up, set him down on the kitchen floor, and set the third spoon in the sink.

There were many tears as I scraped off the spatula and spoon. I looked at him and felt sorry for the child. All he'd wanted to do was to help me make brownies, and he'd only been allowed to use his spoon once in the whole process.

"Hey, how about a treat. Don't tell Mom I let you do this, but would you like to lick the spoon?"

He stopped crying so hard and nodded. I handed him the batter-covered spoon and waited for (as far as I know) his first reaction to raw brownie batter. As soon as he got a taste he shoved the whole spoon in his mouth so far that he almost gagged on it. Once he'd licked off the initial spoonful he gestured at the pan of mix.

"Do again."

"No, we're going to bake this mix so we can have yummy cooked brownies."

And that was when the crying started in earnest. He was genuinely distressed when I put the brownies in the oven, and he actually attempted to open the oven to get at the batter again.

"James, I'm going to tell you what Nama told me when I was little. Someday, when you're a grown up, you can make a bowl of brownie mix and eat the entire thing raw. But as long as you're here you can only have a taste."

"Nama, Nama!"

He made his begging please sign.

"Do you want to talk to Nama on FaceTime?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think she's home."

"Nama, Nama!"

We didn't get ahold of Nama, but we did tell Papa how upset we were that we couldn't eat more brownie batter. The brownies looked great when they came out of the oven, and we're about to serve them to our guests tonight. I should probably go help, because J just finished making biscuits with James, and he's now flipping out that she won't let him stir the empty bowl with his spoon.