Yogurt Parfaits, My Achilles Heel

I am aware of my ability to intimidate others as a homemaker. There are women in my neighborhood, my ministry circle, my school who believe that I can do anything having to do with frosting, fabric, or construction paper. They know I can throw a mean baby shower and bake a killer birthday cake. They call me Martha Stewart. They look at me with awe. 

They should have been here yesterday. 

My sweet first born daughter turned nine years old on Valentine's Day, and I signed up to bring the treat for the class party. Our school just instituted a new no-cupcake policy for birthdays, which is too bad because my cupcake skills really shine. Instead I decided to bring fruit and yogurt parfaits with red sprinkles on top, in ice cream cones. I saw the idea on Pinterest. Only on Pinterest, they were laying down in sugar cones. I bought stand-up cake cones. 

I filled said cones with blueberries, strawberries and vanilla yogurt on a tray. While I deftly did this, one of my best friends called to ask if I could process her new nursery decor with her. Uh, no, sweetie, my brain is occupied. While on the phone, I realized there was no possible way I was going be able to drive a car to school with these on the front seat. At this point BFF begins to giggle. She is a very mean friend.

 Fortunately, a fellow Girl Scout mom was on her way to pick up cookies from my house (I am currently our Daisy troop's cookie manager, and the volumes I could write on this subject...). I barely know her but asked in desperation if she could drive me to school. I made it not two steps through the back door when half my cones fell over, and three landed (SPLAT) on the sidewalk. 


Desperate yell to Daisy mom: "They all fell! Just leave me!" 

Mystified Daisy mom drives off.

Desperate run into the house. Slip on yogurt. Land on rear. 

Call to BFF. "Take me off speaker, I am going to swear!"

BFF: "I thought 32 yogurt parfaits in ice cream cones might be a problem."

"Why didn't you say anything?!?"

"Well, there have been other times I thought one of your crazy  ideas wouldn't work and you pulled it off." 

"New rule: if you foresee a problem with one of my 'crazy ideas,' tell me!"

At this point my friend is laughing so hard (and also her nanny in the background) that I can almost hear the tears dripping down her face. I'd like to take a moment at this juncture to mention that many of my crazy ideas -- like the monster truck track cake I made for her son last week -- have been for her. Mean friend. 

To sum up and end the suspense, I did manage to get all 32 yogurt parfaits into very ugly plastic cups I had on hand, shove them into Rubbermaid shoe boxes (photographed in my car, at right), and arrive to the class party only a few minutes late. Yes, I did have yogurt all over my pants, and yes the kids did laugh at the extremely soggy ice cream cones that at this point had been on a wild ride. But the can of whipped cream I brought along appeased them. And my daughter was happy. 

This is almost the end of the story. When I went home, bringing with me three kindergartners (it was my day to carpool), I spent a good 45 minutes power-washing vanilla yogurt off the sidewalk and cleaning my kitchen floor, which bore definite signs of struggle with what I know think of my Achilles heel: vanilla yogurt. The substance that brought the great homemaker down.

Finally, I pulled out a lounge chair to sit down in the sun and ponder where I went wrong...and sliced my foot open on a rusty chair leg. Forty five minutes on the phone of trying to find my immunization records followed, in which I found out -- thank God -- that my tetanus shot is up to date. 

What have I learned from this fiasco? Well, apparently not much. Because on my counter currently sits two pounds of white chocolate and two sticks of unsalted butter. I am about to attempt homemade petite fours for my daughter's French-themed family dinner tomorrow night. Also on the agenda: lemon cupcakes. Yes, it's an extra step, but I really feel I should have a back-up plan in case my French dessert flops.

And BFF, expected at the family party, might get a petite four in the face.