Last weekend’s dessert was a disaster.

We had had family over for lunch, which meant almost a dozen kiddos expecting dessert, as they should. After all, what cookout doesn’t have something sweet at the end? Hardly one worth attending.

The day before, I’d been pressed for time, so I’d purchased an 80-count box of freezy pops, figuring that should do the trick. They were no flaming Baked Alaska or luscious layered tiramisu, but I remembered being delighted by an Otter Pop when I was little and reasoned that I could pass them out with a genuine, unstressed smile, liberated from the substantial prep time and heat of an oven. I put the box in the freezer and considered dessert done. 

After the brats were eaten, expectation grew in the warm, humid air. The kids exchanged looks. Whispers of freezy pops could be heard here and there. My kids eyed me, trying to determine if we’d arrived at the nebulous “dessert time,” which is as mysterious as the ending time of a soccer game, known only to the ref.

After a real effort to be patient, my kids asked if…it was time.

I agreed that yes, it was. I was looking forward to making ten children smile. They squealed as I paraded the box out to the deck like a hero.

The kids huddled around the box. The bigger kids might’ve been doing popsicle math, figuring each of them could have eight, or maybe even nine and a half because the baby didn’t need eight–that’d be ridiculous. I myself checked out the popsicle colors on the side, thinking a blue raspberry pop would really hit the spot. 

With a flourish, I cut open the tape. The kids gasped as I pulled back the cardboard flaps revealing…a heap of limp, unfrozen popsicles.

Utter disaster! Did I really just fail at freezing popsicles?  

Dessert was no time for failure. If you’re going to make a misstep during mealtime, it’s best to bungle the green salad or crudité platter, giving your guests an excuse to skip them for something more indulgent. Messing up dessert, on the other hand, is simply unforgivable.

I laughed nervously, assuring my onlookers–but mostly myself–that all was not lost. I pulled out a sheet of popsicles. Of twenty of them, only three that had been on the very outside of the pile had frozen through. Ha ha! Victory!

I quickly separated them, desperate to dispel the disappointment that was now crowding out the excitement that had been there just moments before. But as I broke the popsicles apart, the limp popsicles offered no resistance and tore haphazardly through the centers. Popsicle juice ran down my arms, over the heap, through the lawn chair, and onto my shoes. I fumbled for the scissors and tried to cut them apart instead. Inexplicably, I slashed through the side of each one of them. More multi-colored liquid ran down my arms onto the chair. I handed the frozen popsicles to a few outstretched hands but more little hands remained. 

Worse than no dessert at all was dessert for just a few. So, I pawed through the sticky box in a panic. As anxiety crawled up my throat, I managed, in a moment of grace, to find a frozen popsicle for each child aware of what had been promised. The baby was out of luck.

The kids showed incredible maturity. Not one complained. They quickly adjusted their expectations and happily slurped the twenty frozen calories offered to them and skipped off.

I, on the other hand, was more than a little shaken. I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact with the adults. What did I have for the parents who had worked all morning to love, care for, and provide for their little ones? Not even twenty calories of comfort.

My breaths had become shallow and I had zero, unstressed smiles to share. That’s what I got for trying to take the easy way out.

Should my guests ever want to return, I’ll make the Baked Alaska, flaming meringue and all. It’ll be easier.