It’s been a month since this fiasco, so I wasn’t surprised when I woke up Friday and felt the urge to birth another culinary piece of shit (I told you, it comes on like PMS).
I could see the cupcakes in my mind: moist, chocolate, piled high with frosting and handcrafted purple flowers. Huge.Ass.Cupcakes. They’d be perfect for the going away party my friends and I were throwing our friend, Jen. (She’s decided to join the movement of Mrs. Mullet’s friends who get pregnant and move far away. Sniffle.)
My mother, Linda, offered to come up that night and help since Chuck was camping all weekend and she knows it’s impossible to pour a bowl of cereal in the company of a toddler, never mind bake.
By 10 p.m. we were the proud parents of 18 Huge.Ass.Cupcakes.
I thought Linda might hit the road but instead she told me she would spend the night since we hadn’t decorated the cupcakes and she could not bear to have the cupcakes adorned with anything other than her beloved Mary Oliver frosting. I had no idea who the hell Mary Oliver was but according to my mother, the recipe (below) was far too complex for a beginner like me.
Melt chocolate and butter over low heat. Let cool. Mix in remaining ingredients. Place bowl in pan of very cold water and beat until creamy.
(I can’t imagine why I suffer from feelings of gross inadequacy.)
So we Mary Olivered the cupcakes Saturday morning. I won’t lie: by then, I was sick of the stupid cupcakes. I didn’t care anymore about topping them with handmade purple flowers. The fact that they were edible was enough for me.
But Linda. Always the Martha Stewart, she wouldn't let me send them out into the world without some kind of decorative flair. So while Junior and I visited my grandmother at the old folk’s home, Linda set out to find The Perfect Topping.
Fast forward to Sunday, the day of the party. I met my mother in a commuter parking lot so I could get the Perfect Topping toppers. She had looked high and low for something flower-like, but all she'd been able to find were pastel nonpareils shaped like lopsided breasts. She had put them on ice in a cooler like she was a paramedic transporting an organ.
By then I hated the cupcakes. I think she did too.
Minutes later, I arrived at the party only to discover that—gasp! sputter!—the table was covered with desserts: chocolate fondue, chocolate cheesecake with chocolate chips, brownies, cookies.
By then I wanted to cram the cupcakes up my butt and launch them across the room (speaking of which, there was a mother at the party whose seven-year-old thinks her vagina is actually part of her very big butt crack and the mother doesn’t intend to enlighten her. I can just imagine what surprises lay ahead when a boy tells the girl she can’t get pregnant if they have butt sex. D’oh!)
When all was said and done, I ended up taking 10 of the 18 cupcakes back to Mulletville. When I passed my mother’s exit, I chucked one out the window in her honor.
The cupcakes spent Sunday night in my car. I had planned on bringing them to work this morning and sharing them in all their Mary Oliver glory, but I took the wrong car to work so they sat in my driveway all day.
And you know what? I had a really crappy day. And I kid you not—I really was craving a fucking cupcake.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.