The School Bake-Off
'BUT Mom . . .” my eight-year old son, Matthew, wailed again. “You need to enter! Dad’s doing the archery and I’m riding the go-karts. You can bake a pie.”
I shuddered at the thought and tried desperately to recall the list of fair events I’d read about in the school newsletter the previous week.
“What about the dog show?” I said, suddenly remembering the canine show. “Why don’t I enter Missy?”
Matt screwed up his face. “She’d never win. We need to win so I can get points for my class. We get pizza and ice cream if we get the most class points.”
I turned away and grimaced. My life was flashing before my eyes for pizza and ice cream. “You just have to bake a pie from scratch,” he said, echoing his teacher’s
