As dinner came to a close, Carolyn asked if she could have yogurt for dessert.
“Sure, sweetie,” I said. “What flavor do you want?”
“Okay, sure. Go ahead and get a cup from the refrigerator.”
“Banana cake!” She started giggling.
“Wait, I thought you wanted banana yogurt. We don’t have any cake.”
“I know,” she said as she walked into the kitchen, “but I want some banana cake.” Judging from her tone, this was the most painfully obvious fact in the world.
She came back to the table, yogurt cup in hand, and started wrenching back the foil top. With the way clear, she picked up her London cabbie spoon—a gift we brought back from one of our rare trips away from her—and splunked it in.
“This is banana cake,” she said gleefully.
“Wow, you got banana cake? Cool. It’s pretty handy that it comes in a yogurt cup like that!”
She leaned toward me and said, conspiratorially, “I’m just pretending it’s banana cake, but it’s really banana yogurt.”
“Ah, got it.”
“Banana cake!” she chortled once more.
I looked across the table at Kat and said, grimly: “The cake is a lie.”