Why not laugh? (Cupcake Edition)
The year was 2020.
That introduction could probably expand into a book, but there’s no time. There’s cupcakes to be made for lonely souls. One evening it came to my attention that my dear neighbor’s birthday was the following day. Said neighbor dismissed his birthday as a forgettable event, stating no one would acknowledge it. I balked. The man had eight or ten grown children. No really, eight or ten. There were twice as many grandchildren. I just couldn’t believe it. No one would recognize the poor man’s day. I had to act.
You should know that I’m a terrible baker. I’m fine with it. I keep trying. At this late hour, I didn’t have a box of cake mix on hand, but I knew I couldn’t let the poor man’s birthday pass without mention. This was up to me, I decided, to deliver a happy birthday. I’d have to mix wet ingredients into dry, one of my least favorite past times. After some time, 18 chocolate cupcakes were born. The girls and I tasted one, or maybe two, to make sure we weren’t sending dog food to another home. I really don’t have time to be the laughing stock of this neighborhood when I’m trying to celebrate a birthday. After we agreed the cupcakes met reasonable standards, we finished icing them, and topped them with the pink glitter sprinkles we had on hand. I was sure he would find it endearing. He’s a grandpa after all. Tomorrow, we’d deliver cheer to the loneliest patriarch in the most enormous family.
Our gift didn’t disappoint. Ole’ Mr. Chris thanked us profusely, saying the gesture brought tears to his eyes. I didn’t see a tear but my glasses were probably dirty. He loved it. He loved us. We loved him. This birthday was bursting with joy and happiness and it was all because of my late night baking, from scratch.
Later that afternoon, I was standing in my kitchen making dinner. I have a window in my kitchen, right over the sink, with a clear view across the street. A car pulled in to Mr. Chris’ house. I continued cooking. A few minutes later, another car. Then another. There were 5 or more people in the yard. I went about my business. We sat down to dinner, and that’s when I heard it. I hadn’t paid much attention to my window, as I went back and forth putting cups and napkins on the table. “Is that music?” my oldest daughter asked. I’m not a nosy neighbor. I don’t hardly look up when I hear something outside, and I don’t think much about what my neighbors are doing. But I was suspicious. Music, you say? I pushed my chair back dramatically and stepped over a few toys to get to the larger window in the dining room. I shoved my nose and one eyeball in between two blinds. The music was in fact coming from directly across the street. More cars had lined the street outside his house. Was that a……..giant unicorn float in the backyard pool? Were those….tiki torches? I didn’t even know Mr. Chris had tiki torches. Was there a party going on? A…..birthday party?
Yes. The most unloved, forgotten, loneliest grandpa in the southeast was out front with a soda and a cigarette. I’d made cupcakes for a birthday party. “A PARTY!?” I shouted loud enough to startle my small children. “Stop eating”, I announced, throwing my purse on my shoulder. “Surely Mr. Chris is about to invite us to his birthday party any minute now.” My kids kept eating. Which is good, considering our invitation never came. We were the loneliest, saddest little family in the southeast. Actually, no one cared, except me, because I like unicorn floats and tiki torches just as much as the next person.
So what happened in the end? I suppose Mr. Chris had the best birthday a man could ask for. Yes of course we confronted him about not being invited to the party. I don’t miss an opportunity to roast someone (in good fun, of course. Mostly). At the next family cookout, Chris loaded to go boxes so full they threatened to crack and proudly delivered them to our door. He’d even saved us some of his mom’s pasta salad. We ate for two days. Of course I didn’t let him off the hook. Fast forward a few months later and a surprise guest showed up at my middle daughter’s birthday party to drop off a gift. You can guess who it was. Still feeling guilty all these months later, as he should.
When your gesture of good will takes a hilarious sharp left, why not laugh? I think I just started a catering business, and got paid in pasta salad.
