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Kids in the Kitchen

Sometimes I realize I’m changing. You know…loosening up a bit. I mean…not even mildly freaking when my kids ask to have other kids over. To bake. Which has inherently put a picture in my mind of my kitchen with six inches of flour on the floor and of kids wiping their noses and then rolling out dough on the counter.

But which, when I really think about it, doesn’t matter.

At all.

And so I said, “yes”…genuinely. And my daughter invited her friends over to bake.

Friends who donned aprons and giggled off and on for an hour as they learned to measure and mix and read a recipe.

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Friends who hovered at the counter and took turns peering into the mixing bowl.

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And who carefully contemplated which cookie cutters to use.

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My son also had a friend over.

And when it was their turn to scramble up on stools and get wound in oversized aprons, they ditched the train tracks in the hallway and came sliding into the kitchen in their socks.

With fumbling fingers they shredded the paper from the butter. They marveled at it mixing with the sugar. They sniffed the vanilla, poured the flour and impatiently hopped from leg to leg waiting for it to turn to dough.

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As I sweated to break a speed record for rolling and readying dough, I noticed how much I enjoyed having little boys. In the kitchen.

Being…little boys.

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