Lily takes it to mean 7 or 8 vigorous assaults with a whisk, a fact which I am able to deduce by the spattering of cake mixture all over the boiler, the walls and, remarkably, the ceiling too. Herman is loving all the attention; the bin is not. There is now a sizable dent in the lid from where we’ve been climbing all over it to stir the cake, and there is a bruise the size of a large melon on my left hip.

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