|It started on a whim when Henry got downsized from his Wall Street job. He’d read in Fortune, or somewhere, about a bond trader turned baker. Henry becoming enamored with flour and sugar.
Now Henry isn’t a sharing person. I buy a cake, he devours the whole thing while I’ve only had a slice or two. That’s what made me think cupcakes. They can’t really be shared— so mistakenly I’d thought: no problem here.
It’s a sweet little place, trés shabby-chic. Henry bakes them, getting up early, as all true bakers do. He’s the type of man who puts himself fully to every task. The cupcakes are heavenly, arranged on round glass pedestal trays with lace paper doilys. Our shop is the most perfect little escape from reality.
So why do we fight all the time?
Today we fight over frosting. I feel pink with sprinkled coconut would be a nice change from the typical white on white.
Henry sort of pulls at his hair. “Pink will turn off the men.”
“What is this, a sports bar? It’s cupcakes, Henry. Cupcakes?”
“I’d like to attract more of a mixed crowd. Too many prissy-pots,” he says.
“Ok, we’ll do a beef-jerky cupcake with a swastika on top. Edible or plastic?”
”The swastika. Do you want it sugar or plastic?”
“Now where would we find a plastic swastika?”
“You’re kidding me, right? Henry tell me you’re kidding.”