Not Feeling Well? Don't Bake!

Feeling horribly guilty that I'd been too sick on Seth's birthday to cook him his birthday meal and bake a cake, I attempted to make up for it yesterday.

Feeling a bit better (meaning I was now able to stand upright), I began the prep by washing my hands like Lady Macbeth so as not to transmit germs along with the buttercream...

Lady Macbeth, immediately
prior to baking.

...and had to rest immediately afterward. For smart people, this would have been a clue...

I should have abandoned the butter and eggs and returned to the safety of the recliner in which Buzzy and I had spent the past three days....moving only for bathroom trips (both of us), bottled water (me) and kibble (Buzzy...I wasn't hungry). 

Between naps, we marveled at hand-fishing hillbillies, pitied hoarders as they found dead kittens under old pizza boxes and ranted weakly at the idiots on House Hunters who couldn't seem to see past the paint color on the walls of the master bath.

 

With a box of Puffs Plus beside us and a bag of Ludens sugar-free wild cherry throat drops within reach, I waited to feel better....and then, yesterday, I did. A little.

I am, by nature, a shirker. I spend more time thinking of ways to get out of physical labor than actually doing it so why, after days of being really sick, I suddenly decided to drag a couple of laundry loads up and down the stairs, empty the dishwasher and wipe down the bathroom is beyond me. Add to that, the baking of a birthday cake and you have proof that I am not responsible enough to be left on my own.

The cake was a mistake from minute one. 

Measuring the sugar and flour with leaden arms and too exhausted to drag out the electric mixer, I combined the ingredients by hand, sitting in a kitchen chair, taking long breaks between each step.

Wanting nothing more than to be done but accepting that I'd gone too far to abort the mission, I forged ahead, accidentally putting in way too much vanilla and too little salt as I jingled the stainless steel measuring spoons like a musical instrument.

About half way through, I self-soothed by stopping to sing the song that had been running around in my head all day..."Heffalumps and Woozles" from Winnie the Pooh.

Perked up a bit after my musical number, I continued--woodenly sifting the flour twice, confusing the baking powder with the baking soda (which I do under the best of circumstances) and getting enough granulated sugar on the floor to perform a nice soft shoe--if I'd had the strength.

Amazingly, the cake came out pretty well but I was ready for the ER by the time it was done.

 

I'd also left a horrendous mess for Birthday Boy to clean up since I was now completely out of energy.

Frightened by my pallor, the chaos in the kitchen as well as my delirious insistence upon reprising my performance of "Heffalumps and Woozles" for him, Seth led me back to the recliner with an audible sigh and returned to the kitchen to clear away the debris. 

Seth ate a couple of pieces for dinner while I, sucking on a Ludens and waving a Puffs Plus sang one last chorus of "Heffalumps..." before rejoining "Swamp People" where I'd left off.

 

Come, on---sing along! You know you want to!