easy as pie

"YOU can bake a CAKE?"

"What do you mean, can I bake a cake!?" I'm up in arms, offended. Don't they know better by now? We're settling our graduation party menu, and I've just offered to satisfy a wish for something strawberry by going to the trouble to bake a from-scratch spongecake with real whipped cream and the berries--the deluxe treatment as much because it is my favorite as to honor our few Seniors.

As I assure myself--the same self that barely gets any dinner cooked barely any nights at all--that it won't be that much trouble, I hear an echo with a Chinese accent from the other side of the room as "strawberry cake" is listed by my name on the whiteboard, and again the reaction is incredulous, and again I demand to know why.

"You a teacher." And not for the first time in any context I feel kind of insulted. But this time I just don't get it.

"What does that have to do with anything?!" I try not to stamp my foot. And they can't really explain. It's just not who they assumed I am when it's a skill I take for granted. At this point, I should be glad to have any secret, any unrevealed side, as much as they casually pry into my life. But instead it's a thrown gauntlet. I may have only bought eggs so far, may not know the exact whereabouts of my springform pans, may not have done anything but make rude gestures at the stack of work in my bag, may need to provide technical assistance to a 5th grade video book report in between the beating and the folding and the slicing and the so on, and really, may need to make two, but I swear those doubting unbelievers shall be having some Deluxe Strawberry Shortcake, as the cookbook calls it, Friday, and if they don't like it? I don't even want to hear it.