Last night, I baked gourmet cupcakes. From scratch. Including the frosting, which, by itself, is impressive enough to brag about.

The Young One helped me. I applauded him for being “somewhat useful.” He took this slanted compliment as an invitation to stick around and lick the counter.

Generalization: The kids love the sugar. I equate their insatiable appetite for the white stuff with my deep affection for red wine. Both raise our glucose levels and send us into dizzying states of bliss, so really, the small ones and the grown ups are kindred addicts.

The Young One has a distinctive baking style. It goes something like this: 1) Pack the powdered sugar 2) Lick the fingers 3) Whisk the batter 4) Lick the whisk 5) Dribble the mix 6) Lick them pan. At one point, he dropped a saucy spoon and licked the floor. He cleans as he works and this works for me.

The small ones and the grown ups are kindred addicts.

After dinner, I arranged the frosted cakes (very retro-chic) on a platter belonging to my grandmother (a classy domestique) and served them warm. The Young One and The Tall One declared them “good” and said they tasted like waffles.

Waffles?

Hmmm. Not exactly the review I was hoping for (I’m sure Ms.Nigella Lawson, Queen of the recipe, would have been appalled). But, since they do LOVE waffles, I equated the comparison with a Four Star review in the Special Zagat Edition of Truck Stop Eatin’. “Maam, two eggs over easy, side of bacon and a chocolate bunt cake, please.”

I let their friendly commentary on my attempt at trendy dessert sink in. I have made delicious cakes that lonesome truckers would eat.

“Pass one over here,” I said.

With that, I dipped a savory bite into my red wine, popped it into my mouth and licked my fingers with satisfaction.

For an entertaining read on the battle over the Edible Icon: The Cupcake, check this NY Times article

Image courtesy of Petrina Tinslay. Click HERE for the recipe.

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The Tall One’s grades came in the mail on Friday. Let’s just say, they’re not his best.

I tore open the envelope (we’d been badgering the kid daily for a progress report with no success), and as soon as I saw the extensive damage, I hid them. Hiding them implies a deliberate move to conceal the truth, so let’s rephrase: I removed them from immediate view.

It was stepmom instinct. I assumed his father (with his sometimes frayed, end of the workweek, nerves) was not going to respond well to this scholastic news.

This will only go one way, I thought. Not good. If I buried the evidence, maybe I could buy some time. To do what, I wasn’t sure.

It’s like that tired movie plot where the wife finds the murder weapon and realizes her husband did it and part of her wants to protect him (from his STUPID decision) and the other part of her wants to call the fuzz and have him hauled in.

I realize this makes me sound like an accomplice. No comment.

But, I ask you: Was it a crime to shield The Tall One from the disappointment of his father, who sometimes reacts like a bull-headed cop? Was it against the law to try and preserve my much needed, stress-free Friday night?

This will only go one way. Not good.

I reconsidered. Maybe I should just pull the grades out of hiding, leave them exposed for all to see, call a girlfriend to meet me for a cocktail, and get the hell out of here!

And that’s when it dawned on me. I’m protecting The Tall One!

While it’s very likely that he misled us into thinking all was “good” with his grades (BTW, I think we need to reevaluate his definition of good since he applies it to both the marvelous and the awful), I wanted to give The Tall One the benefit of the doubt. I hoped he’d explain this hideous blunder from the student records office.

Feeling my bird wing extend to defend the Tall One (And let’s face it, he’s totally guilty) gave me a surge of rosy optimism. Perhaps, I can do this stepmom thing after all. “By God, I said aloud, I have a Mom gene!”

I had the sudden urge to bake a cake.

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