The voice on the phone was tinged with the desperation that comes each year at Spring Fair time.
"We need cakes for the cake walk," it said. "You couldn't bake one." Truer words have never been spoken - I can't bake anything - but how was that sweet-voiced woman to know that of all the things on earth I cannot do, cake baking, ahem, takes the cake.
I ran down my mental list of excuses and evasions. Too busy? Nope, that wouldn't work because the woman on the phone was probably busier. Something else going on? A possibility but you can bake the cakes beforehand and drop them off. Broken stove? Too obvious. Can't bake cakes? Pathetic.
So I replied in the only way I could. "Why, yes, of course I'll bake a cake. Any kind in particular?"
"No," she said. "Just a simple cake." Again, how could she know that in my world, cakes are neither "simple" nor "just." But I was committed, and now there was only one way forward. Go out and buy the mix.
Things started out OK. The directions were clear and simple; just four easy steps and presto! Perfect batter. In fact, it was so easy that I started thinking. Why settle for a boring old cake? Why not do cup cakes and throw in a little something to spice them up.
My hand automatically went for the bourbon, but I managed to stop myself before splashing it into the batter. What was I thinking? These cakes were destined for children. You don't waste perfectly good bourbon on children! I took a quick swig and put the bottle away.
Strawberry jam seemed more appropriate, so I spooned a dozen dollops into the batter then shoved the tray into the oven.
Fifteen minutes later, the aroma of chocolate cake filled my house and I was imagining myself parading into the Spring Fair with my fabulous jam-filled cup cakes, other moms and dads rushing up and fawning over them, the music of Foreigner's Juke Box Hero playing in he background.She's a Cup Cake Hero, got stars in her eyes….
But the dream was shattered when someone who cannot be named in this column waltzed in and asked what was exploding in the oven. Good Lord. The cup cakes. When we opened the door, we found the oven covered in the shrapnel of half-baked cup cakes, several having indeed blown up, the others poised like hand grenades with their pins pulled waiting to go off.
We got the cup cakes out of the oven, and when the danger passed He Who Cannot be Named lectured me on the laws of thermodynamics: the jam heats up more quickly than the batter, ergo the fireworks, darling. Thank-you.
Luckily, the jam had sunk to the bottom of the cup cakes and I was able to resurrect the survivors by cutting off their bottoms. But this didn't solve the problem of the wart-like nodules on top, the baked-on debris from the less fortunate cup cakes, I could only assume.
So I did what one does in these situations: I smeared white icing over the top then made happy faces with chocolate icing squeezed through a plastic bag with a hole cut in the corner.
"Mutants!" thrilled He Who Can't when he saw my creations. And he was right. The faces were more homely than happy. In any other circumstance, I would agree with those who say that plastic surgery is barbaric and perverse, but in the case of these cup cakes, cosmetic intervention seemed merciful and necessary.
I microwaved what was left of the white icing and poured it over the faces. Now we had creepy, Goth cup cakes - Addams Family cup cakes. But at least they weren't mutants.
The clock was now bonging. Time had run out. Spring fair was here. He Who Can't Be Named took my Goth cup cakes to the opening, and bless him, he told the people the children made them.
Not surprisingly, they were the last chosen by the winners in the cake walk. I'm not entirely sure they weren't given away as charity or perhaps to the dog waiting by the door.
And if this was the case, then let it never be said that this Cup Cake Hero faded away. She just crumbled in the jaws of a dog.
