Bash isn’t the only thing coated in flour. The counter, floor, chair, and window are too.
We had an incident with the measuring cup. And the flour container.
And me overestimating either his ability or his will to get the first cup into the mixing bowl.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him. “These are gonna be the best pancakes the world has ever seen.”
He grins at me, flinging a glob of half-mixed batter up under the cabinet and making the light there go a little dimmer.
Wonder how fast I can find a housecleaner for Emma. I cleaned in here the other day, but my skills might not stand up to toddlers cooking.
And then I think about Bash inmyhouse, making a mess ofmykitchen, Emma and her chickens wandering around too, and my heart skips a beat.
I have a house near Razzle Dazzle headquarters in Albany, close to what was once Hayes’s primary residence and a short helicopter ride to our parents’ estate. One in Los Angeles merely for convenience, since I’m there often enough for premieres and voicework and the occasional film. One in New York City for the same reason.
But myhomehas always been an estate on a hundred acres in southeastern New Hampshire, near where most of the filming for Razzle Dazzle films is done.
I could see Emma and Bash there.
Not because I want them to move. Not because I’m changing my mind about stepping away from acting.
But because they’ve welcomed me into their home.
I want to share what’s been mine with them too.
Bonus—the security is airtight.
“I took now,” Bash says.
Took. Took.Cook.
I glance down to where he has the pancake mixture still goopy, the bowl resting in a soupy white slurry that’ll probably turn into glue before long.
But it’s close to ready for cooking.
“Can I give it a stir?” I ask him.
“No.”
I stifle a grin. “Okay, then. What’s next, little chef?”
“I took now,” he repeats.
“Does your mama let you cook on the stove?”
“Suit up, Bash,” Emma calls from the powder room down the hall where she’s giving the chicken a bath in the sink.
Bash slides off the chair and runs to a cabinet across the kitchen, trailing flour and pancake goop behind him. I give half a thought to stirring the batter quickly while he has his back turned, but then remember I watched him eat canned green beans buried in mashed potatoes and honey for lunch before the baby shower yesterday and decide he’s not going to care if his pancakes are lumpy.
Also, I’ve been inhaling parenting handbooks, and at least three of them said kids should be free to explore the world and make safe mistakes.
I assume eating lumpy pancakes falls into that category.
Even if I have no idea if the parenting books I’ve been reading are the right ones.
Bash nearly crawls into the cabinet, and eventually emerges with an apron, a chef’s hat, and two massive oven mitts. “Tie me up, toach!” he shouts.
“Zen and Theo shouldn’t be alone with him,” Emma says on a sigh down the hall.
