Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Those hands, that butterfly cake
I've mentioned Ian's good hands before. The ones I married him for.
I've told that story, right?
I explained the way everything about Ian, when we first met, seemed to fall into place, one piece at a time, as if I had been waiting for him to show up and finish my puzzle for me all my life. And how on the way home from our first dinner date, the one I showed up an hour late for because... well, that's a story I haven't yet told, he walked me back home through the snow-glazed streets of Lienz, Austria-- one of my favorite competition sites where the race course snakes down the mountain through the trees and sends you catapaulting down a final waterfall-steep headwall, and spits you out right at the sidewalk's edge of the village. And on that walk, Ian reached for my hand, for the first time, and caught my fingers in his and pulled me into his world right then and there.
And it felt a little bit like going through the wardrobe and into another, more pure, more promising world than the one I'd been inhabiting for so many years.
Well those same hands made two- dozen butterfly cupcakes, orange and lemon sponge cake with butter and powdered sugar frosting, for Isla's birthday party over the weekend. (I suspect he used this Delia Smith, he's loyal to Delia, recipe.
The man, and his hands, never fails to surprise and amaze me with his ability to bust out the cookbook, or, in this case, find a video tutorial of the British persuasion, and produce the most amazing edible concoctions.
And when his hands were done with performing kitchen alchemy, they washed up nicely and deftly fastened Isla's new birthday locket, given to her by my parents, inside which she intends, as soon as Daddy prints out the right size image for her, to keep a picture of her beloved dog Ruby, gone but in no way forgotten.
"We'll never forget Ruby, will we mom?"
"Never, Isla. Never."