Prompt: Walter and Etta baking with Polivia looking on.

"Fetch the cup, my dear! The recipe clearly dicatates only half of a cup, but that is simply not enough for a decent cake. Wouldn't you agree, Etta?"

Eighteen month old Etta gave a vigorous nod, and immediately climbed down from her toddler stool to "fat the cup" (her determined mumble was clearly audible) and Walter couldn't fight the amused smile that broke out.

Walter turned back to the cake, still hearing Etta rummaging around in the cupboards, scouting out a cup.

"You know, this is an original Bishop family recipe, Etta. I used to cook it when courting your grandmother. She would love it so, and inevitably, it lead too.."

"Gran-pa!" Etta's insistent tug came on Walter's pant leg.

"Ah yes, dear. Do you have the cup?"

Etta nodded vigorously, one hand behind her back.

He held out his hand. "Can Grandpa Walter have it?"

Another vigorous nod, and Etta proudly brandished her sippy cup from behind her back.

"Cup!" she grinned.

"Etta. dear, grandpa meant the measuring cup," Walter said, squatting down to his granddaughter's level.

"Cup!" Etta insisted, strong holding the cup into her grandfather's hand.

"No, this is Etta's cup. We need a special cup."

" 'ta cup. 'pecial." Etta nodded.

Walter chuckled. "Okay, we can use the special Etta cup. We simply need to ascertain which level marks the appropriate sugar content…"

The old scientist busied himself with calculations, while his granddaughter studied him.

"Aha! The volume is roughly equivalent to that of a measuring cup, it's simply more oblong, so we won't have to change the measurements at all. Clever girl!"

Walter gave Etta's stomach a little tickle, eliciting a giggle from the child, as he poured in the final ingredient.

"Now, all that's to do is put it in the oven! What a brilliant child, Grandpa didn't even need to tell you where all the ingredients were! Now, what to do in the meantime?"

"Cake!"

"Not now, little one, it's cooking."

Etta seemed to consider that, her mouth forming into a pout so like her mother's.

" 'bob?"

"Spongebob! An excellent idea! Come, my brilliant grandchild, Spongebob it is!"

—- break -

"Cake!"

"Exactly! The recipe, though faded, determines this to be the exact amount of time."

"Mommy?"

"No, Henrietta. Mommy does not have anything to do with this."

"Cow?"

"Nor Gene. Shall we focus on the cake?"

"Cake!"

Walter prides himself on remembering oven mitts as he retrieves the cake.

His first indication is that it is not nearly as hot as it should be. His second indication is a far better one.

He supposes he should have seen it coming. Etta did have an affinity for mud pies, and the cake was a spitting image.

Then there was the "Etta, no!" coming from the doorway a split second before it happened.

The sensation of the cake, propelled by Etta's chubby hand, hitting his face was shocking at first. A blend of hot, cold, wet and solid hit his face all at once, and he sputtered, perhaps one or two choice words slipping out.

"Shit, mommy!" he hears his grandchild squeal, and then Olivia's lilting giggle.

"Should have warned you, Walter. Baking with Etta is a bit of a dangerous process."

"Shit," the child in question chimed in helpfully.