Or, more importantly, food presentation.
Also: I realize the title should be “These Are”, and right now it reads more like a panicked curse – “Cops everywhere, man! This is cupcakes! We’re totally cupcakes!” – but I have a system to uphold.
Supposedly presentation is a big deal. I get not going out to a nice event looking like you just rolled out of bed, but that’s a personal first-impression variant where food layout is a different beast altogether, and not one requiring so much attention. And look, I’m certain a fair number of you might be reading this who are already gearing up your weather machines to unleash an internet hate-storm before hearing me out, but listen: the arrangement of food on my plate, food which is about to be decimated in my mouth before traveling through the miraculous internal pumping parts of the human system where it will then be absorbed, reimagined, and, in many cases, shoved violently out, is not priority number one. Taste is king (or queen), and in many cases, the sloppier my burger looks and the more overburdened by necessary parts hanging alluring over the sandwich-lip it appears, the more inviting the presumed taste. The attractiveness of a meal makes little lasting sense. Thanks to my wife’s innate cleverness, I now eat mashed potatoes, noodles, and corn as one compound mass of carbs, with the resulting sculpture far superior to any segregated pairings. Perhaps that too is presentation, which leads me to believe I need to compartmentalize my argument some.
At any rate, I’m deviating. I made cupcakes for work. They were good. Pretty good. Though their placement in the pan may have been less than ideal, though their Manifest Destiny encroachment on spaces outside their own gives the impression of ill-planning, I ask: does this matter? Because it’s a little rude to demean a man’s cupcakes who slaved over a cold mixing bowl for upwards of fifteen minutes out of the kindness of his own heart.