Crappy Cupcaker

A good cupcake maker I'm not. I know this. Have for a long time. Yet that didn't stop me from volunteering my services for the cake walk at the school carnival tomorrow. I don't know what led me to believe that my skills were all of a sudden Magnolia Bakery-of-NYC-and Sex and the City-fame worthy.

Why did I think that my confections would rise above the rim of the paper cup and be anything other than the sunken pieces of dough they usually are?

Well, that's because they did:

Come on. An eight year old can make better looking cupcakes than I can. I'm perfectly capable of opening a box, adding oil, water, eggs, and mixing. But it's a measuring thing. I can't seem to get the right amount of liquid into the cup.

And now, not only am I a crappy cupcaker, but I've reached new lows in somehow trying to justify my lameness. Like the fact that I can't visually measure the precise amount is a good enough excuse for the little messes that come out of the oven.

But don't be mistaken, they taste delicious. I should know. I ate two once I decided that I would make a trip to TOP Foods tomorrow morning and buy cupcakes. When J came home from soccer he ran inside the house with his cleats still on and fell on his way to the kitchen. As he was getting up he said, "I can smell the cupcakes." And yummy they smelled.

There were a few good looking ones.

Now that's a pretty cupcake. And the way I see it, I only have seven years before M will show me how to make perfect ones every time.

Now close your eyes and imagine that it has frosting on top.

Come to Momma, Carrie Bradshaw. Come to Momma.