![]() ![]() Soon she let me dribble the batter into the buttered tin, but because I often disregarded the very first step in the starting sequence-preheat the oven-I had to wait until the baking could even begin. She always knew how to fix things: She’d tell me to try stirring the batter a hundred times with a wooden spoon, and so I also got to practice my counting as the batter finally smoothed out into ribbons of creamy thickness. ![]() I’d dump all the ingredients together and end up with big floury lumps of undissolved cupcake mix and run crying to my mother that all was ruined. All this to go into cupcakes-I didn’t understand until then that all things are made up of smaller things.īut often I was too impatient with the steps and an order that seemed too strict. She told me there were specific steps to follow before I could eat my cupcakes: butter the tin, find the bowls, get an egg from the fridge, pour out a cupful of milk. She’d have me practice reading the instructions on the back of the box. I knew the way each bite dissolved on my tongue and filled my mouth with sweetness and time with my mother. I was six, and I knew only the perfect roundness of the cupcakes and the smell of sugar, the light sponginess and the domed golden-brown mounding that I could hold in my hands. If there was a chemical aftertaste to them, I didn't know about it. It was always Flako, never Jiffy or Duncan Hines, and I never knew why. In 1963, even in Greenwich Village, cup cakes were two words. I still remember the warm buttery taste of Flako Cup Cakes, which I made with my mother from a mix in a box.
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