The Oh So Feisty
One’s ninth birthday is here — and that means it’s time
to make the cupcakes.
Homemade cupcakes for the classroom birthday party? Who’s kidding
whom? It’s a rare mom in Park Slope who makes those cupcakes from
scratch anymore.
Smartmom’s friend JollyBeMom is that rare mom — but then again,
she’s a professional baker whose luscious chocolate cupcakes are
to die for. Not every mom can bake a cake that looks like Chartes Cathedral.
But like everything else in the Slopeosphere, cupcakes are fraught with
socio/political and psychological meaning.
They have, in fact, become synonymous with good mothering.
Trouble is, for the vast majority of moms — those who work full-time,
parent full-time, volunteer full-time or juggle it all — classroom
birthday parties mean Duncan Hines Devil’s Food Cake mix, Betty Crocker
frosting, and a smattering of red dye #5 sprinkles, prepared in a kitchen
still stacked with dirty dinner dishes. Gross.
Betty Crocker frosting is so sickeningly sweet that five out of five dentists
don’t recommend it, even for their patients who like lousy frosting.
But it’s so easy.
To say that Smartmom was in denial about this year’s cupcakes would
be a vast understatement. So busy was she working on an assignment for
Dumb Editor that there were no cupcakes dancing in her head — until
the day before the party.
When, she wondered, would she have time to make those cupcakes?
Smartmom tried to reach Hepcat at the Edgy Computer Startup, but he gave
her a quick “gottagorightnowbye” and said he’d call her
right back.
Desperate, Smartmom called Harried Harriet, who regaled Smartmom with
tales of what happened last year.
“At 2:30 on the day of the party, I was hurtling down Eighth Avenue
in my Volvo with cupcakes on the passenger seat.” She was stopped
by cop in front of Saint Saviour’s church (God help her), who accused
her of bypassing a school bus that was discharging kids.
“He threatened to give me a ticket. I didn’t say anything about
the cupcakes — how could I?”
Heart racing and slightly traumatized, Harried Harriet arrived at the
school with seconds to spare. “It was fairly ironic, when you think
about it: I had endangered the lives of children on a school bus in order
to get to my daughter’s classroom in time to deliver cupcakes.”
There’s got to be another way. So Smartmom called Designer Mom, who’s
always good for a time-saving parenting tip. “I get mine at Two Little
Red Hens,” she said. “I can’t make them as well as they
do. Plus, I’ve got better things to do.”
But then her voice changed and she said with barely concealed bitterness:
“But last year, Thrifty Mom looked at them scornfully and said, ‘Jeez
that must have cost you a bundle.’”
Indeed, there is a stigma attached to bringing bakery-made cupcakes to
class. In private school, it’s downright unthinkable, according to
Smartmom’s emissaries from Berkeley Carroll, where the rule seems
to be: the more money a parent spends on tuition, the more time she is
expected to spend baking.
Thank goodness OSFO and Teen Spirit went to public schools, where it is
acceptable to use a cake mix — or even bring cupcakes from Costco.
Late Thursday afternoon, Smartmom decided once and for all that she was
going to get OSFO’s cupcakes at Two Little Red Hens, but when Smartmom
broke the news, OSFO looked stricken. She loves to spread that canned
Betty Crocker frosting — high in transfats — onto hot, just-baked
cupcakes.
But Smartmom wasn’t about to bow to a 9-year-old. Nonetheless, she
slept fitfully that night, fearful that Two Little Red Hens would be sold
out when she showed up the next morning. What happens if some other mom
swoops and grabs the entire stock of miniatures?
At 8 am, Smartmom and OSFO took Eastern Car Service to Two Little Red
Hens and asked the driver to wait. To her great relief, there was a full
tray of miniature cupcakes behind the bakery glass. White cake with white
frosting and rainbow sprinkles, they were a veritable bargain at $1.50
each. Feeling like a birthday sport, Smartmom ordered 30.
Spending $45 dollars on cupcakes was a pittance compared with a phone-therapy
session. When they got to OSFO’s classroom, one of her teachers saw
the label and squealed, “That’s my favorite bakery in the world!
I can’t wait.”
These are for you, Smartmom said. God knows you must be sick to death
of Duncan Hines.
Smartmom held her head high, vindicated and proud. This wasn’t about
being too busy to bake. This wasn’t about childhood neglect or not
being a good-enough mother.
Hers was a crusade to save the teachers and children from the curse of
the Duncan Hines Devil’s Food mix and the gloppy Betty Crocker frosting.
Or that’s at least what she told herself.
