cup-cake (kuhp-keyk) noun
1. A small cake baked in a cup-shaped container (http://www.thefreedictionary.com/cupcake)
2. A muffin consumed by magic i.e. When a muffin and a unicorn fall in love they have a cupcake (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=cupcake)
It seems like everybody’s on this cupcake trend at the moment and it’s obvious why. They’re utterly delectable and beautiful to look at. My personal love affair with the little treats started at university about four or five years ago…
The Islamic Society was running a bake sale as part of charity week, a huge annual fundraiser run across the ISocs of University of London Universities and one of the savvier sisters hit on the idea of asking local bakeries for donations. In hindsight, I suppose requesting local businesses to give a little for the greater good is a fairly logical thing to do when running a charity drive but we weren’t talking about any old local high street here. The campus was located in South Kensington, parked in the heartland of the greats of the British baking establishment. OK, OK ‘greats of the British baking establishment’ is probably going a bit too far but it is true that we were tucked between some excellent delicatessen chains. Alright fine, I actually have no idea because I never made it past the Paul’s opposite South Ken. Station but the point is, not even five minutes away from Paul’s, there was one place I hadn’t known about. One that was about to subtly but not insignificantly alter the course of my life (the food-loving part of it, at any rate) and take my taste-buds on a trip they would never forget. This place was (drumroll please…) Hummingbird Bakery.
Now, don’t groan. I know this place is super famous but it wasn’t at the time and, in fact, American style cupcakes were yet to break into mainstream consciousness so when Hummingbird generously donated a few dozen cupcakes to our cause (which I was told would otherwise have been criminally thrown away at the end of the day) they caused quite the stir…in my heart…my mouth…my tummy…mmmm...Oh, sorry, where was I?
To set the scene, our stall was located in one of the university building foyers. It was a fairly large space, dissected down the middle by two criss-crossing sets of stairs and teeming with students. The walls were concrete grey, the floors were granite grey and the stairs were…another shade of grey…and amongst all the grey and the hustle and bustle in walked some ISOC sisters, parting the crowd, bakery boxes held aloft in some sort of cupcake guard formation. As they approached the stall, expectant smiles slowly spread across their faces at the joy they knew they were about to impart and when they reached the table, they gently laid down their booty and lifted the lids to reveal the most delightful dozen sweet somethings I’d never imagined I’d see in my life. Row upon row of perfectly formed, cake confectionary generously iced in pastel greens and blues in Hummingbird’s stylized signature swirl, sprinkled with sugar confetti and snugly nestled in pleated paper wrappers. If cherubs (the cute kind, not the creepy, ugly kind) were real and able to metamorphose into a food, they’d be these cupcakes. No joke.
Drawn in by the force of their deliciousness, naturally, I had to have one of each. I mean, I had a hunch they were all the same flavour and just iced in different colours but just in case, I had to check you know? Besides, it was for a good cause (ahem) and boy am I glad I did because alongside the brighter, cockier, ‘Look at me, ain’t I fine?’ cakes was a small cluster of another variety. Iced simply in white, these cakes were more understated. The casual observer would probably dismiss them as plain, uninteresting, choosing instead to pay attention to their more obviously pretty sisters but the more discerning eye, the one that took the time to gaze on them a moment longer, would start to notice the unmistakable, refined elegance in their design. These cakes knew what they were about. They didn’t need to tart themselves up to attract attention. These cakes were quality.
Having sufficiently recovered from the sugar hit of my first two cherub-cakes, I was ready for my final purchase - the white one. I received the cupcake as a delicate gift. Wanting to savour the experience, I took the opportunity to examine it more closely, angling it against the light to watch how it played across its whippy frosting, gently testing its weight in my hands. Having whetted my appetite with my eyes I proceeded to slowly tease down the wrapper and my patience was rewarded with my first glimpse of red sponge. I was first surprised and then intrigued. I’d never seen anything like it. The red body, juxtaposed against the creamy white of the topping was stunning. Taken slightly off guard I didn’t know what to expect next but there was nothing for it. I peeled back a little more of the casing and eagerly went in for my first bite and as my tongue registered the combination of firm moist cake and soft, rich cream cheese frosting my heart just….*sang*[1].
And that was it. The moment I fell in love. That cake was the Kate Middleton to my Prince William.
***
Time passed and I’d think of this cupcake from time to time. I’d never caught its name and for some reason I never tried to find out. Perhaps I was afraid I’d built up the entire thing in my mind and that it wasn’t as fantastic as I’d remembered it to be. It was only cake after all…but I never forgot.
Instead, I tried to fill the hole in my life by making my own more basic cakes. I found a few recipes in my baking book at home and tried them out. I tried both vanilla and chocolate with buttercream icing. Sometimes I even added sprinkles. They didn’t pack the visual punch of the Hummingbird cakes, of course, but they were attractive in a rustic, home-made way and I enjoyed eating them, as did my friends and family.
Then a few months later an extraordinary thing happened. I was lounging on the sofa during one of my customary lazy Sunday mornings watching the BBC’s ‘Something for the Weekend’ with my mum when Simon Rimmer, the resident TV chef, started whizzing around the bright green TV kitchen putting together that week’s dessert. I’d missed the beginning of the programme so I just watched on in a mildly interested way as he started creaming together the butter and sugar and beating in the eggs one at a time. All standard stuff. I‘d know. I’d played the game myself so many times before but then came the game-changer. The colour red. I watched, entranced, as Simon continued whisking the batter, turning the spots of food colouring into bigger and bigger swirls of red until the entire mixture was transformed into a pool of high gloss red laquer and I knew.
I eagerly watched the rest of the segment. He started to whip together the frosting which looked fluffy and delicious but all I wanted was a name. Finally, the cakes were baked and slathered with cream cheese and prettily finished off with a crystallized rose petal for effect. The other co-presenters and the show’s guests all gathered around the edge of the kitchen counter-top and started to dig in when, finally, Simon turned to the camera and said the words I had been waiting for.
Red. Velvet.
I had a name! Red Velvet cupcakes. No sooner had the programme ended and I was powering up the computer to grab the recipe from the BBC website, just as Simon had suggested I should. Unfortunately, I had to wait a few hours for the latest recipes to be uploaded but no matter. I’d waited a few months, what were a few hours more?
I spent the interim period just googling for Red Velvet cakes. There were so many hits I was beginning to wonder why I hadn’t done so before. Later that day, I returned to the website and there it was. A list of ingredients, a set of instructions and my love. Despite my allergy to grocery shopping, I think I offered my mum to the do the weekly shop that same day and rushed out to my local Tesco to buy the things I needed. Philadelphia, yoghurt, red food colouring. I baked the cakes that night. We were re-united at last.
[1] I was not on drugs. They were properly tasty.
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