When the spouse invited the 4-year-old to “help make cheese scones” I vowed to keep out of the way. I don’t go looking for trouble and am careful to stipulate activities that don’t involve running water, flour, and hot stoves. Cheese scones are on my no-fly list. I scurried upstairs to my office.
A prolonged discordant crashing cacophony like the collapse of a bell tower had me flying back down, wondering how many emergency services I would need to call.
The scene was peaceful; the 4-year-old perched on a high stool, up to her elbows in scone dough, the spouse organising baking trays by the cooker, and all the saucepans arranged upside down on the floor.
“What happened?”
“We’re making scones.”
“What was that crash? Why are all the pans on the floor?”
“It’s the band. I’ll show you.”
With that, the 4-year-old leapt down in a spray of grated cheese, raising a flour cloud that fogged the kitchen. Grabbing a couple of wooden spoons she set about the upturned saucepans. The band more than compensated in volume for what it lacked in harmony, leaving me slightly stunned as though someone had hit me with a lead pipe.
Through the fog of flour, I saw the spouse pottering happily by the cooker as the final note from a jarringly pitched vegetable steamer died away.
“Why do you need a band?”
I got a look confirming my suspicion that I’d asked a silly question.
“We’re making cheese scones.”
Ok, fair enough. I concede defeat to 4-year-old logic and retreat to the office.
Sometimes the band just has to play on…
