He stirred and stirred until his wrist felt exhausted. His palm looked purple from the tight grip. The batter was ready for the oven. But he saw a lump. He hated lumps. Lumps reminded him of his mother. They created a volcano of rage inside of him. He stirred and stirred some more. The lump was gone after thirty minutes of painful movement. He wished that her lump had been so easy to destroy.