Move Over Betty Crocker
I’m entering unchartered territory as the girls get older…the obligatory birthday cupcakes. I made a batch of two dozen strawberry cupcakes with vanilla icing last week for Caitlin’s class in honor of her 4th birthday. A mixing bowl was unearthed from its dusty confines. Cupcake bling in cheery pastel colors was purchased. And although they weren’t from scratch, it did require some egg cracking and actual mixing with my electric mixer, which has been used as about as infrequently as Jessica Simpson’s brain cells. I’ve set the bar low all these years and headed straight to the baked goods aisle at the grocery. I mean why bake when you can buy? I’ll admit the kitchen is not really my comfort zone. The hubby? He loves to cook, although he’s definitely not a cookie baker, and can pan sear a mean tuna steak or whip up an incredible pasta dish from scratch. No recipe or cookbook guidance needed for him. Me? I need a little hand holding behind the stove.
Growing up, my mom always had a delicious homemade pie on the counter or banana or pumpkin bread. Of course if I did bake regularly I fear the scale factor. I’d probably weigh 300 pounds. I can’t resist Girl Scout cookies or crappy soft bake cookies from the vending machine, so homemade cookies, pie, or cake would send me into foodgasmic ecstasy. I’ll have to admit, though, that seeing Caitlin’s eyes sparkle as I pulled the piping hot cupcakes out of the oven filled me with pride and the sudden urge to wear a crisply starched apron and enroll in the next cake decorating class at Michaels. Caitlin helped decorate the icing (OK…OK, so the icing was straight from a can) with sprinkles. She was practically beaming when I carried the cupcakes into her classsroom in my mother’s Tupperware container (God I am such a mom now). Maybe I’ll relinquish the mixer from its banishment and whip up cupcakes a little more often, even if they are straight from a boxed mix.
