flour in my coffee

My daughter is three, and on Sundays we bake, which means I bake and she governs, sleeves rolled to her armpits, standing on her chair at the counter she calls her office. She cracks the eggs, which is to say we discuss the shell situation calmly afterwards. Flour in her hair, flour in my coffee, flour in places flour cannot be explained.

The muffins come out wrong every single week, dense as riverstones, and she hands them out to the household with the gravity of a state occasion. I have eaten about forty of them. I would eat forty more.