“Should I add more milk?”
I looked up from the recipe, curling the corner of the paper absent-mindedly.
“It said I could, if I really wanted to.” Her eyes are huge. She looks a little lost, in our warm kitchen late at night. Her hand has stopped stirring the spoon, and the batter is now dripping off in gobs.
I started to giggle. She looked so serious, like the fate of the whole world rested with getting this cake just right. Then again, it was cake, so in our household it really was the fate of the world.
“Do you really want to?” I asked her, trying to keep a straight face.
“I dunno. I dunno what my priorities are.” She glared at the bowl in deep concentration, then resumed stirring it harshly as if it had done her some personal offense.
I smiled and returned to the recipe.