At 10 PM Saturday, Mateo decided to make strawberry shortcake. Talking him out of it was futile. Bedtime is a battle I fight only Sunday through Thursday.

The shortcake was more biscuit than sponge, which we discovered we prefer, and made from scratch. Mateo whipped the cream, too, using a hand whisk. We bought the strawberries at 10:15 at the grocery store down the hill, when Mateo realized we were missing the recipe’s key ingredient.

Is there anything on earth more interesting than the mind of an 11-year-old boy? Strawberry shortcake, why? Apropos of what?

These are questions I don’t ask.


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