This story doesn’t really have anything to do with anything. It just popped into my mind the other day when I was making cookies.
2012 was a heck of a year. It kicked off with me quitting my grown up job in Vancouver, subletting my dreamy Kitsilano bachelorette pad, and officially becoming a ski bum in Whistler.
By the time April came around, I was convinced that life could not possibly be any better. I slept in a single bed in my own room of a shared basement suite in Alpine. When it snowed, the snow would cover my window and I could sleep for 12+ hours. No person has ever been as well rested as I was in 2012. I worked approximately 9 hours a week as the hostess of what can only be described as the most chill restaurant in Whistler (rest in peace, Flipside). I had an epic Eurotrip planned for the summer ahead, and I snowboarded an awful lot.
At the time, my friend Anne was a substitute teacher (she is now a lawyer). Some weeks, she would work a regular workweek. Other weeks, she would work zero days. This was great for me, as it meant she would make the pilgrimage up the 99 and join me for some skiing. This was great for her, as it meant she could crash on the couch and ski again the next day. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Synergy at its finest, if you will.
On this particular April afternoon, after a most satisfying day on the mountain, Anne and I found ourselves wondering what we should do for the rest of the day. The answer came to us quickly: we would bake some cupcakes. Not just any cupcakes – these cupcakes:
Martha Stewart’s chick cupcakes seemed appropriate, given that Easter was just around the corner.
We began to bake. Anne was extremely impressed with the fact that I could crack an egg with one hand. She told me that there was a scene in Julie and Julia about this, but I had not seen the movie. I still have not. [It is while cracking an egg with one hand baking cookies that this memory came to me, by the way.]
After Anne had buttered me up (ayo! baking pun!) with my egg cracking skills, I felt like a real baking prodigy. I was eventually brought back down to earth when we assembled our final product. It looked like this: [these are genuine photos of our actual cupcakes – I’m so glad I deemed this event worthy of Facebook 5 years ago!)
Okay, so they’re not quite Martha Stewart caliber, but they looked cute enough and they tasted divine.
Chicks assembled, it was now time to move on to the next part of our evening: the delivery. We had a limited number of cupcakes and an extensive list of people we wanted to gift them to: my roommate (who never objected to Anne crashing on the couch), the front and back of house staff at my chill restaurant, our favourite doorman, our favourite coat check girls, and our favourite bartenders and barbacks, to name a few.
We piled into the Anne van and made our way to Whistler Village.
First up was Flipside, my place of employment. (For those who weren’t around in the glory year that is 2012, this is where El Furny’s is currently located.) It was a quiet evening in the restaurant, and we joyfully distributed our wee chicks to the bartender, the cooks in the back, and the server on duty. After some cupcake related chit chat, we decided to move on to our next destination.
But as we got to the front of the restaurant, two more patrons came in. One was a bartender who worked with me at Flipside. He was with a girl that I didn’t recognize. They appeared to be high on life, and very possibly other substances.
Remember, now, we only have so many cupcakes – particularly now that we have fed the Flipside staff. This is an important detail.
We say hello to the off-duty bartender, but I’m keeping an eye on his companion. She looks both lost in outer space and intensely focused – on the tray of cupcakes I’m trying to protect. She has a crazy look in her eye. Slowly – like, ultra slow motion slowly – she reaches out towards me, hand open, palm facing down. She is seconds away from SQUEEZING A CHICK!
My maternal bakerly instinct kicks in. I protect the chicks from her grasp and exclaim (probably too loudly) that she cannot have one. This was rude of me, but it was rude of her to get grabby with them. I am also certain that she will not remember this interaction (or me) in about five minutes.
With the cupcake situation under control, Anne and I proceed to Maxx Fish, where we dole out our coconutty cupcakes to the door man, the coat check girls, the bartenders, and the bar back. Oddly enough, this is not the first time I go to the nightclub solely to disburse cupcakes – nor will it be the last. Serving tray empty, Anne and I return to the Alpine suite and ready ourselves for another day of skiing.
Yes, 2012 was a heck of a year.