yes. bananas. oatmeal cream cakes. my hawkeye.

The afternoon was caving in.

I had desserts to make for a group gathering that evening and my culinary ambitions were far exceeding both my abilities and my time frame.

Otto was napping and the girls were playing together and finishing up their school work. I tied on my apron, clicked om my Avett Brothers Pandora station and tossed out my ingredients on to the trusty butcher block.

Little feet scuttled into the kitchen.

“Can I help you cook this afternoon Mommy?” a little voice asked.

I surveyed my helper and considered the offer.

I knew what this type of help usually entailed.

I tried to hold in my sigh.

“I’d rather spend time with you than play,” Hawkeye smiled at me. Blue eyes blazing. Shaggy hair sticking out underneath the homemade-by-Aunt-Sarah aviator hat that has become his daily head covering.

“Of course you can help me son.”  My mind telling my mouth to say the right words.

And so we started conquering the tasks at hand.

One Pinterest inspired.

One a grandma’s shared passed-down recipe from Shelby.

Both desserts I had never before made.

(Why do I always decide to experiment with foods at exactly the wrong times?)

Bergen tied on his apron.

And what began as an afternoon of just getting the job done, as an afternoon of forcing myself to choose my son over my own agenda, turned into something completely different.

Entirely better.

And sort of magical.

For whatever reason the girls stayed occupied and happy and no one entered the kitchen for the entire afternoon of our cooking labors.

We made oatmeal cream pies. The kind filled with creamy white icing.

We made banana pudding.

Completely from scratch.

With homemade meringue on top.

Meringue that we made and then baked in the oven until the little peaks were crispy brown.

We had a system. I frosted and Hawkeye matched the top cookie to the perfect bottom cookie. We multi-tasked like old pros. Hawkeye encouraged us each step of the way.

Bergen’s six-year-old hands were so capable. He learned how to get a pan of oatmeal cookies out of the oven. He used the electric mixer to whip egg whites and sugar into a meringue. He chatted about birds and the pleasures of baking for our friends and he laughed a lot.

It’s such a beautiful sound.

Baking so much and so intensely seemed to wear us both out apparently.

When the last batch of oatmeal cookies was pushed into the oven and the timer set, Bergen made a suggestion. “What if we go cuddle until the timer goes off for the cookies?”

I’d already said yes to his request to cook together – why should I say no to this invitation?

What I thought was going to be an afternoon of duty and beating the clock turned out to be this sweet time spent with my son that I wish I could somehow etch on my brain and hold on to forever.

Which is really why I write.

And why I want to remember to answer yes and to try to spend afternoons in the kitchen with a six-year-old baking oatmeal cream cakes and banana pudding with meringue.

It was the kind of afternoon that makes me glad that I am living in a moment that allows me the opportunity to know my children and to spend an afternoon in such a simple beautiful manner.