This is my oldest daughter.
(I think she is lovely.)
The other day I pulled out my jr high yearbook to look up a person I had run into during my day. Just for fun, I looked at my 7th grade picture and found that, despite what I had thought, this little pixie actually looks a lot like me...or at least the 7th grade version of me.
Beside her looks she also got her love of reading, sometimes snarky attitude, and love of horses from me.
However, sadly, she also inherited some not so fabulous traits from her mother as well. One of those reared its ugly head this weekend.
I had a group of five overripe bananas and thought they would make a lovely batch of banana bread. Aubrey loves baking so I asked if she would like the chance to make the bread. She was thrilled with the plan.
So, while I ran a few errands with the boys, she followed our favorite recipe, put together three yummy pans of batter, and popped them in the oven to cook.
When I came home about 90 minutes later, I was assaulted by a strong, char-like odor as I walked through the door. I scuttled to the kitchen where I found three very very very well done loaves of bread basking in the continued heat of the sweltering oven.
|Very very very well done loaves of bread.|
Upon further investigation, I found Aubrey downstairs in her bedroom listening to a book on tape completely oblivious to the scorching truth that was happening upstairs. She had set the timer, headed off to do something else while the bread cooked, and gotten engrossed in other things entirely forgetting her obligation to her trio of banana bread friends.
And that is probably exactly what I would have done. I am notorious in my family for blistering baked goods because I get too involved in something else and their pastrified needs slip my mind.
Like mother, like daughter I guess.
I'll take that.