One morning I woke up to the warm, comforting smell of the vanilla cakes baking in the oven. Here we go again, the thought crossed my mind. I walked downstairs to our kitchen, only to be greeted by my mom’s fierce mixing and my dad’s precise cutting. I came down the rest of the stairs and sat in the chair across from the messy island they were at work on. They didn’t like anything to be on the island while they were working; as if anything could fit. My mom’s powdered sugar sprinkled the table-top, mixing with the strips of fondant that my dad had cut away from a creation that he’d been constructing.