O my people, now there are cupcakes.
Nice cupcakes, right? Fully respectable cupcakes. A good dozen. They're from scratch.
But then, so are these:
What happened here? These are the cupcakes of Satan. They are the scariest pastries I have ever seen, and they are from my hands, and I am frightened. I should have known not to trust what was going on with the batter at the bottom of the bowl. It had this weird, gooey-lump quality to it, but did that stop me, nooooooo, I was all, "Well, it's sugar! Therefore, good!" and into the flute cup it went, because I'm still managing this amazing compulsion to assume that if something doesn't taste good going into the oven, a few minutes at 350 degrees is magically going to fix it.
Then there's the Singer Saga, in which my beloved sewing machine and I had it out in the kitchen for about an hour and a half. I was laying my considerable seamstress skeelz on the line and attempting to hem curtains, and what happened was not a hemmed curtain, but a ball of fabric with this utter mass of thread on the bottom. Here, I drew you a picture:
cream cheese out of the can for the cupcakes at: email@example.com