Despicable Me cupcakes

Like all idiotic plans, it seemed like a good idea at the time. So what, if I'd never seen the movie? So what, if the cost of ingredients exceeded the gross national product of the Polynesian island nation of Tuvalu? So what, if I lack technical cooking and baking skills, having never successfully produced a radish rose or a pinch-able pie crust? I would, by golly, defy the natural odds of physics and fate and mass produce sixty cute cupcakes to conclude our summer school program.



After months of ceaseless prayer, Hostess re-emerged from the dust just in time to decorate my "Despicable Me" dessert. Unfortunately, a snack-starved public resulted in an unforeseen snack shortage. Thus began my Twinkie-pilgrimage. While not thrilled about the nearly eighty mile round-trip journey to acquire this vital ingredient, my husband, nonetheless, agreed to accompany me on my quest. What he was not prepared for, however, was my emotional meltdown in aisle 4 when we were confronted with the empty shelf that would render my (very) public promise to produce amazing cupcakes equally empty. Confused by my reaction, Brad pointed to a comparable cream-filled cake. "No," I shrieked. "That's NOT a Twinkie! It won't have the right sponge-like consistency. The filling will lack flavor. I'm ruined!" Brad shrugged and walked away while I debated the possibility of traveling an additional twenty miles to the next sizable shopping center. But time was growing short and so was Brad's patience. I snatched up several boxes of the Twinkie-wannabees and traveled home to spend a mostly sleepless night interspersed with traumatizing Twinkie-filled nightmares.

Step one in creating these cream-filled creations was to bake sixty cupcakes. No easy feat, given my hectic television-watching schedule and afternoon nap routine. Problem solved with some effective delegating. Dear Sydney, my cheerful morning postie note greeting said, Please bake sixty cupcakes. Love, Mom. My next hurdle was to now mass produce muffin-shaped minions. With two hours at our disposal, my student, Arrie and I arranged our supplies including "Smarties" candies (eyeballs), boxes of Twinkie-twins, vats of frosting, and blue decorator icing.  Disgusted that I'd never seen the movie, Arrie brought it in and we watched while we assembled our miniature minions. While our end results did not exactly mirror our on-line inspiration:
http://cupcakepedia.com/2013/07/15/how-to-make-minion-cupcakes/, our occasionally cross-eyed, Leaning Towers of Totally-Fake Snack Cakes definitely had personality.

Obviously, it would've been a LOT easier to bring in chips. It was super-rewarding to hear six-year-olds squeal with delight when they caught sight of our completed project. It was pretty cool to have a six foot four inch tall fifteen-year-old boy ask to take a few home to his "little bros." The best part, though, was completing this ridiculous goal with Arrie. "Can I pipe on the pupils and hair," she asked. Wanting them to be perfect, I hesitated and then shrugged. "Sure." After a bit, she wanted to switch tasks. "You don't have to ask, Arrie," I reminded her for the zillionth time. "I'm not the boss. It's OUR project. We're a team." This concept is apparently unheard of but magically liberating for a 9-year-old. I had anticipated enthusiastic participation for the first twenty or so cupcakes but Arrie soldiered through to the very end; mortaring eyeballs, filling boxes and telling me not to whine. Our shared success was very gratifying. Even more gratifying was Arrie's parting gift. "Here," she smiled, handing me a horseshoe," good luck in 4th grade." Her present is already adorning my new classroom, a constant reminder of how lucky I was to have been able to spend my summer with her.