Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

I mentioned in the post below that the youngest gel had tried to bake some cookies with mashed-up hard candies in them yesterday, resulting in a fine mess for ol’ Robbo to deal with.   This was the price I paid for allowing her to attempt making the dough all by herself while my back was turned taking down Christmas decorations.

We had another go at it late this afternoon, this time with pre-made tubes of Pillsbury dough.  Alas, we wound up with more or less the same results.  However, I was able finally to ram into her head the root of failure.  You see, whoever it was from whom the gel got the idea made mention of a “stained glass” effect.  This sank in on the gel for some reason or other and became the focal point of her designs, nay, almost an object of obsession.

Herein lay the problem.  You see, to me, “stained glass cookies” look something like this:

stained glass cookies

The trouble was that the gel was thinking more along the lines of this:

Rose Window

Despite my insistence that it would never work, her vision was of one giant cookie-dough cake, bedecked with intricately woven patterns and streams of candied color, which she would proudly slice apart to the admiring plaudits of her little classmates at St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method.  (Her eleventh birthday is tomorrow, hence the celebratory  refreshments  for her fellow scholars.)

What she actually got was an amorphous lump, roughly akin to that flying wash-cloth thing that stung Spock in the back in that Star Trek episode, only burned all round the edges and hermetically sealed to the baking sheet.

The gel was good enough to admit that yes, she had perhaps made a miscalculation in terms of the practical and achievable.   But the fact that she immediately turned round and blamed me for not stopping her sooner somewhat undercut the sense that a lesson had been learned.  Sometimes, ol’ Dad just can’t win.

However, having fanned twice in succession, the gel is now at least willing to listen to me.  This evening I explained the cold truth to her:  We are going to give it one more shot.  We are going to do it my way this time.   We are, to shift metaphors, going to box to our weight.  And she is going to be pleased with the results whether she likes it or not.

Sometimes Father does know best.