Let's get a Carvel cake

When my daughter Llara was still in grade school and as a single mom we shared a house with two other adults. We worked as a family of choice.

Together we were renovating a house on Wigglesworth Street in Boston, a real handyman's nightmare.

We were all busy between full-time demanding jobs, grad and undergrad school besides the work on the house. Still we found time to have fun and often when something good happened we would go down the road to the Carvel Cake store to celebrate thinks like a good report card, a fireplace where we'd discovered marble under layers of paint, the return from a business trip or whatever we deemed as a reasonable excuse.

We also had a German Shepherd Nikki, a tiger cat Pumpkin and two Japanese chin pups, Albert and Vixen.

Albert's testicles had not yet descended and we were beginning to get worried and murmurings of vet visits were in the air.

It was a Friday night. We'd been to Harvard Square, "family night" to eat, catch up on the week's happenings, roam the bookstores for the next week's reading and listen to whatever street musicians might be playing.

Back home we headed for our rooms. The third floor had three bedrooms arranged around a central hall. S was in hers, I was in mine and Llara was in hers. Although Llara was suppose to be going to sleep we were still chatting between the rooms.

Albert and Vixen were on S's bed when she realised no vet would be necessary. "Albert has balls," she called across the hall.

From the dark of Llara's room came, "Let's get a Carvel Cake."

Since S and I were in pjs, we sent B. While he was gone, we wondered what he'd have written on it.

B brought it back but instead of "Albert has balls" was a simple "Congratulations Albert."