Yesterday was my first job interview. And as with any first time experience, I walked
away feeling positive, energized, and knowing without a doubt. . that I did a horrible job.

This is the way my brain operates. It might be a security mechanism so I don’t get too disappointed if I’m rejected. Or it could be because I haven’t had any other experiences to compare it to. It’s probably the second one. Either way, I came home ready to pout and feel sorry for myself and just be an all-around big baby.

Obviously I’m over it now. That’s why I can write and laugh about it. And no, there’s nothing wrong with me emotionally, or mentally. On the contrary, I’m a very stable human being. I think anyone, after a nerve wrecking, whole new experience, where they’ve tried, and more or less achieved, keeping calm, rational, and charming, has earned the right to come out of that situation and throw their head back, groaning loudly “oh that went horrible.”

Thus, I came home prepared to mope and pout. And then my mom said, “you’re making the dessert for tonight, aren’t you?”

Once a month on Thursday night, my church has a “Ladies’ Fellowship”. They separate us by last name on who brings a salad, main dish, or dessert.
So I moped my way into the kitchen and started loading up the kitchen aid.

I was being so dramatic. I thought it only fitting that a loser like me use a cake mix instead of making it from scratch.

I added one cup of water.

Then oil.

And eggs.

Around egg-time, I started feeling better, losing the attitude and realizing the good things I had said during the interview, instead of all the times I stumbled over my words or got mush mouth-y.

I exhaled and smiled a little and got out my mini ice cream scooper to start filling the cupcake sheets.

Then I turned around, bad mood almost gone, and whipped open the oven to slide the sheet in, and stopped in my tracks. No heat. I felt no wave. Nothing. I stuck my hand in, then touched a rack.

The oven wasn’t turning on. Upon further inspection, the pilot light was out.

My mom had said it smelled like gas, but when she checked that morning, the pilot was lit. Now it wasn’t. And both of us were too afraid of blowing up to light it manually.

In comes my mom, with her never-say-die ingenuity.

We have a conventional oven called a “New Wave”. Maybe you’ve heard of it. If you haven’t, it looks like a big plastic bubble with a metal rack inside. We use it more than the microwave, and it’s supposed to be healthier for you.

Well my mom wasn’t giving up, even though I have to say, the dead oven was the straw that broke the camels back. I was about done with the whole thing and started eating the chocolate chips that we were going to put inside the cupcakes.

She got the pan for the new wave and tried to set the cupcakes upright on it, realizing we needed something in the middle, and got a mini bunt pan as the center base. I was already figuring that if this didn’t work, the most logical decision would be to just make a bunch of mini bunts.

We sprinkled a few chocolate chips in the middle and baked them for about ten minutes until they were done.

The side of the cupcake closets to the bunt would raise, leaving each cupcake very topsy-turvy, to the point that it looked like we did them that way on purpose. They were moist and tasted great, though. So we plated them and brought our dessert.

In the end, though, it turns out that A-G was supposed to bring dessert. We’re G-M: which was main dishes. . Oops.