Rind

I am a baker, a really good one.  I’ve been honing my craft for years, so baking disasters are a thing of the past; well, were a thing of the past, until tonight anyway. 

I decide on angel food cupcakes.  I’ve put this batter in all shapes and forms:  Bundt (even though they tell you not to), glass loaf, its namesake pan, for sure.  Have I ever done cupcakes?

Things don’t go so well. Too much batter means the cake rises over the edges, sticking mercilessly to the non-stick muffin tins.  The tops don’t quite look cracked after fifteen minutes, so I let them go a few more, just long enough for the acrid scent of burnt sugar to assault the kitchen.  The exquisite, colorful Martha Stewart papers that look so festive in my mind permanently adhere themselves to the cake, forming a second skin that leaves a mountain of crumbs in its wake when attempts are made to peel it away.

Stripped of their protective wrapping, tops misshapen by the remnants left behind on the tin, the boys and I are forced to embrace their naked imperfection. Which makes me think, why not celebrate the flaws?   

I grab just the right number of candles for the occasion, surrounding them with these tasty, albeit blemished, treats. My oldest turns seventeen tomorrow. Angel Food is his favorite.  I’m certain he’ll see nothing but the love.