upside down cake

The update:

Animals are still sick. (Although Roux appears to be on the speedy track to recovery).

Work was awful yesterday: the sort of day where I feel claustrophobic for the entire 8 hours and my coworkers are so petty that they take cheap, personal shots when it's completely uncalled for. Hard to brush it off, even if I do know I won't have to be here forever.

Then last night I decided to make this recipe. Her description totally won me over, and I love things with yogurt in them, so I'd been meaning to make it anyway when I was asked to bring something baked to a meeting I have tonight. Last night I toiled away in the kitchen, actually making two loafs thinking it would be nice to have one at home. After all, A has his huge test today and tomorrow, so wouldn't a little lemon blueberry cake ease the stress? I finished one successfully, but I was getting impatient waiting for the other one to cook (it was 10pm and I'm usually in bed by about 8:30), so I kept taking it out of the oven to check and see if it was done yet. I was sidling it back into the oven when the towel I was using to hold on to it slipped. For a split second I tried to catch it with my other hand, the way you do without really thinking about how touching the thing'll burn your skin off, but then it DID burn me, so I dropped it. And it landed face down all over the kitchen floor. Hot sticky dough flew everywhere. Cursing under my breath, I salvaged what I could and finished cooking it. This morning I actually heated it back up in the oven, because A isn't a believer in the microwave. It didn't look pretty, but I sort of thought it'd still taste alright. So there I am, being the lovely little supporter, heating up home made lemon cake (forget for a moment that I also smeared it across the kitchen floor), and I take it in to him, so sure that all the pain and suffering I endured making the damn thing would be worth the satisfaction of feeding it to someone else.
But he didn't like it and didn't want to eat it.
And I actually left the house in tears.
What on earth is wrong with me? What am I, a housewife from 1952? I don't know why I cared so much, but I did, and still sort of do, and must now heal my wounds with lots of espresso and the indulgence of foreign magazines at the nearby bookstore.