On a recent, sweltering Tuesday, I picked up one daughter from a friend's house and deposited another at a piano lesson before the last leg of the Hebrew-school car-pool route. If I negotiated the parking-lot drop-off successfully, I would have time to beg the butcher for something I could cook during the 10-minute slot allocated for dinner preparation/homework assistance/personal time.
As I considered possibilities (raw-meat sandwiches?), a little voice piped up from the backseat. "Do you know what I want for my birthday?" Having forgotten exactly who remained in the car, I fell back on a generic response: "Chocolate cake, pink-frosting...
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