He would have a mother who baked.
I saw in my child's future, afternoons spent measuring sugar, sifting flower and licking batter off of cake beaters. Joyful times, filled with laughter, that would last forever in my childs memory (and never add a pound to my hips - this is how we can tell it was a fantasy.)
Now, the teensy, weensy problem with this outlook of nirvana, is that it overlooks the fact that I don't know how to bake. To be more specific, I CAN'T bake. I can cook. I would even go so far as to say I can cook well, but the art of baking completely eludes me. My cookies are dry, my cakes are burnt, my brownies are always raw in the middle of the pan, and let's not even think about pies. My pie crust would land me straight into mothers prison - no possibility of parole.
Fortunately for me, I live in a society that sees fit to exploit all possible weaknesses and fix them easily, quickly, and with ingredients that can fit into a 8" x 2" box. (sans eggs, milk, oil and water).
I used to love Betty Crocker. I saw her as this older, grandmother like figure who knew my baking inadequacies, but instead of exploiting them, she devised a plan to help me disguise them so none would be the wiser. This angel of mercy would see me wondering through the cooking isle, in search of the bake sale fairy that would somehow bestow enough baking knowledge upon me that I wouldn't have to spend the afternoon scraping off the letters "O - R - E - O" from a package of cookies in the hopes of passing them off as my own.
The woman was a cooking genius! Chocolate cake, yellow cake, rainbow sprinkles, red velvet...you name it, this woman could make it. She even was so kind as to put the frosting in tubs along side the cake boxes, so you didn't have to try and pass off a tub of cool whip as vanilla frosting in 95 degree heat. Sure, I felt a little sheepish when I compared my end results to the picture on the front of the cake box (hey, I MEANT to make my cake look like a mutant bear with the mange. I'm eco aware. Get off my back.) But, no matter how it looked, I could count on the taste to be spot on. Follow directions 1 -3 on the back of the box, and get edible cake at the end. Hell, even I can do that. The directions to open my box of wine are more complicated then Betty's no fail directions.
Today, I discovered, Betty is harboring a secret jealous streak. She's tired of the masses baking with her mixes and then passing it off as made from scratch. I imagine that she's running around her kitchen, streaks of flour in her hair, smears of rainbow chip frosting on her cheek yelling like a Banchee hopped up on estrogen and Meth - "I just want some fucking credit! Lying bitches. I'll show them!"
I decided to make some Angel Food Cake. I decided on this for 2 reasons: 1.) You only have to add water, and 2.) Angel Food Cake is fat free. Seriously, Fat free. Although, after my experience, I wouldn't be surprised if she was lying about that too.
As I said, I enjoy baking with my son. Although, it has called into question his legitimacy status, because he outright refuses to eat cake batter, but have you ever tasted angel food cake batter? It's odd. Like eating baking soda mixed with sugar.
Anyway, I flip over the box to find out if I add the water to the cake mix, or the cake mix to the water (because for some fucked up reason in baking - this matters...) and at the bottom half of the directions the following catches my eye:
"Fun Snack-Time Cupcakes"
Well...who the hell could resist that? I look over at my 3 year old who is gazing at me as if I am the bestest mommy in the whole wide world, and ask him "Do you want to make a cake or cupcakes?"
"CUPCAKES!!!!" is his jubilant reply.
Well, alrighty then. Cupcakes it is. I read the instructions. And I quote....
"Place paper baking cups in 30-36 regular size muffin cups"
It's important to note that I followed the directions. Because, if I had come to that conclusion on my own, all that would have been accomplished is a reinforcement of my non existent baking skills.
I prepared the batter, put it into said muffin cups, and baked for the time specified. They smelled awesome, and much to my amazement, looked EXACTLY like the cupcake displayed on the back of the packaging. To give you a visual, they looked roughly like this (sans frosting)
Pretty Right?
I thought so. I was pretty damn proud of myself. And that's when that Bitch Betty got her revenge.
My son, geeked at the prospect of cupcakes, was patient while the things cooled (read: lie in wait) I picked out the prettiest one, and attempted to separate it from it's paper wrapping. This is roughly what I ended up with.
The Damn things would not dislodge from their wrappers without committing a self disembowelment act.
I tried again, and again with all 36 of the messengers of evil, only to be met with the same fate each time. I swear I heard Betty laughing in the background.
I'm still searching for my bunt pan.
