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I learn so much from my intergenerational friends. Looking forward, my quinquagenarian companion reminds me that life is too long to get lost and stressed in everyday minutia. After a long career with Chicago Public Schools, his eyes are squarely set on retirement to a bucolic Canadian hamlet. He has transcended petty workplace dramas and is confident enough in his familial ties to know that family troubles too shall pass.
In the other direction, this month marks the birthday of and my one-year friendiversary with the two-year-old-soon-to-be-three-year-old next door: Mr. George. He is precocious, curious, kind, raised by a rad dad and awesome mom, and keeps alive my childlike spirit of wonder that I so prize. He also loves dinosaurs, which forms the bedrock of our friendship if I’m being truly honest. So for his birthday this year, I’m donning my apron and baking the kiddo a Mesozoic masterpiece worthy of his imagination and acuity. Most so-called “Dino Dig” cakes you’ll see are *sniff* *adjusts spectacles* specious. Entire skeletons lounge atop a single layer of soil, insinuating that one merely trips over a T. rex and eliding MILLIONS OF YEARS of geological history. What are we teaching our children?! Will constructing an educational excavational entremets be easy? No. But our children deserve better. I cannot in good conscience let Mr. George be hoodwinked by the lies that an inferior cake would lead him to believe. I must bake him a geologically accurate “Dino Dig” cake.
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