Betsy moved in after my first day in the office, and after scrambling to get a mattress, a couch, a table, four chairs, and set of pots (including four more frying pans) into the house and out of the rain, we sat on the couch and exhaled. Betsy said we should christen the house, but all we could think of were male initiation rites, which essentially amount to varying degrees and types of eating, fighting, and undressing. We needed a civilized idea.
My mom had sent me with a muffin tin, lemon cake mix, and vanilla frosting. Cupcakes, we decided, could christen the apartment in a more feminine manner.
Batter went into the muffin tin, and the muffin tin went into the oven, and a little while later we pulled almost two dozen cupcakes out of the oven and frosted them. We ate them with all the pomp of sitting barefoot on the couch, staring at a huge, blank, white wall.
Two down. Roughly 22 to go.
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