On Wednesday, I baked. Red velvet cupcakes, to be specific. I finally quashed the craving I have been cultivating for two years, ever since I had one on set as an extra for the movie ‘The Year of Getting to Know Us.’ I never saw the movie, but I’m pretty confident that the cupcake was of a higher standard than the script.
As I was making the cupcakes (from scratch!), Jared watched, horrified. The Australians don’t eat red velvet cupcakes, and I think I know why – they are really bad for you. I mean, really bad. Probably not as bad as that other American favorite, the Cheesecake Factory, but still no trace of nutrition. Ms. Paula Deen’s recipe involves an artery-clogging amount of butter and cream cheese, not to mention more sugar than you’d collect in a good night on Halloween. Paula’s instructions also left me with half a bowl of cream cheese icing that I couldn’t bear to throw away. It is now chilling in a tupperware container in the fridge. I will probably eat it, then feel gross afterwards. Knowing this in advance does not decrease the likelihood of it happening.
The problem with baking is that the results taunt me. The neon red cupcakes (slightly too much food coloring) were calling me from the kitchen all morning. At 10:08, I broke down and ate one. It was so delicious that I had two. Then I remembered what they were made of and my stomach started to hurt. I’m not entirely sure what sort of lesson I should have learned here. It either has something to do with self-control or having some one else make the cupcakes, so I can enjoy them in blissful ignorance.
I vote for blissful ignorance.