Cupcakes

by Godfrey J. Ellis – October 2002

Mum (“Mom” for you Americans) had a friend who threw my little-boy-cupcakes in the trash! What? Oh, the tragedy of that, as this poem expresses.

Nine-year old Godfrey, baking cupcakes.
Mum helping; very complicated.
“Read that, add that, stir that!”
Blind faith mixes the pasty mud of sugars and oils,
Spoon growing heavy as the ooze thickens.
“…Keep mixing!”
Aching arms dropping gobs of goo and sticky slopping plops of paste,
Plopping into paper-lined holes sticking to little fingers.
Mess and muck and muddle – What fun!
“Twenty minutes and they’ll be done!”
 
Scrunched face burning red near tiny square of glass;
Straining to see the slowly rising mounds,
Looking through the grease-encrusted porthole of hope.
Wait!  Something happening inside!
Lumps growing smoother, darker….
“Let’s open the door and have a look!”
“No!  Be patient.  They’ll fall if they’re shook!”
 
But, soon enough, padded, gloved hand extracts the golden treasure.
Picasso’s steaming tray of triumph sits on counter’s edge.
Oh, the rapture!  Life is sweet;
Swelling, smelling pride,
Miracles made with my chum.
Products of me and Mum.             
 
We break one open….
Soft whiteness and a curling puff of vapor; pad of butter.
Ambrosia!  Nectar!  Manna!
Strange sharp taste, though; my mouth puckers.
Interesting, not bad, strong…almost spicy. 
(“Glass of water, please.”)
Yes, definitely different.
“I think I like the strong and peculiar taste….”
“Just how much salt did you use?” she asks in haste.
 
Pause…. 
“Why, two of these things, why?” 
Was there a glimmer of doubt in her eye?
There was!  There was a crack in the dyke – O, rising horror!
“That’s a tablespoon, not a teaspoon…” she said, 
“You put in two tablespoons?”
O, fall from lofty heights of grace!  No! 
Not a flaw in my copper-mounded, magnum opus!  Oh!
 
Please, no serpents in my Garden of Eden;
No forgeries in the Louvre.
Then quickly:  “But they taste very good, still, don’t they!”  
“Yes, they’re still wonderful! …Yum!”
Lied my kind friend, my mum.
  
As for me, I loved those salty treats,
Loved them with taste acquired by pride’s desperation.
And, best of all, my brother and sister didn’t eat many!
But Mother’s next-day return brought new stories,
Tales of older friend and co-worker,
Divorcing, depressed, crying… and wishing she was dead.
“We must do something for her,” Mum said.
 
Child’s heart responded with innocent love and faith of widow’s mite.
In voice soft with glimmerings of pre-veil goodness:
“Let’s give her my cupcakes!”
And my mother did!  (I don’t know why…. 
Perhaps, she knew no words to stifle such sacrifice,
Such a gift of love from the heart of an innocent.)
So, whited sepulchers were on their way to Mum’s work,
Nine cupcakes – all that were left – the whole sum,
Off to bless the friend of Mum.
 
And now, a day-long wait for news of cupcakes’ healing power,
How they blessed Mum’s sad and hurting friend
How they cured her hour of splintering grief.
Finally, Mum’s form filled the door! 
“Well?” I called out in my quick dash.
“She said they were too salty.  She threw them in the trash!”
 
Gasp!  No!  Broken heart!  Crushed, wounded, hurt.
(It never occurred to me that I could bake more.)
Too late – paradise was already lost….
Loyal Mother (always my support) was appropriately angry at her friend.
And so was I; in bitter irritation I sat.   
But I’ve since forgiven her … (the old bat!)