It’s raining cupcakes this summer.
Tiny cakes topped with vanilla icing and a cherry—the roads in Palo Alto are flooded with them.
My neighbor, Tom, a retired naval officer, believes the gods might be sending cupcakes to restore the sweetness lost amid the recent frenzy of terror and hatred. What with the wars and people crippled by fear?
He picks up a cupcake and takes a bite. The aroma of vanilla wafts through the air, becoming increasingly enticing with the bright red cherry on top.
“It’s delicious,” he quips like a little boy receiving candy on Christmas.
The weather reporters are puzzled and debating whether this is yet another consequence of climate change. The cupcakes keep pouring down onto the roofs.
Soon, the people in the Midtown neighborhood are enjoying eating them. There has been a sudden increase in tea parties hosted by our neighbors. Invitations are accumulating in our mailboxes. The bakeries in Palo Alto are unhappy about their unforeseen decline in business. Replicating the bakers’ divine recipe for these vanilla cupcakes is challenging.
There’s something special about the ingredients. Cinnamon, buttermilk, and honey? I can’t quite tell. But the vanilla and cherry swirl in my mouth; its sweetness washes away the bitterness of my recent divorce and the loneliness that accompanied it. It melted my anxiety bouts that therapy sessions couldn’t cure. It’s the only thing I can eat these days. My backyard is filled with them. My refrigerator has no space for milk or vegetables. My waistline has expanded in ten days. But the sugar rush keeps me in high spirits. Everyone seems happier, with more smiles than I’ve seen in the past few months. I’ve made a few friends, including a young couple who found love over these cupcakes and a retired professor who claims the cupcakes are a sign of the end of bad times.
The cupcake storm continues with fervor for three weeks. By now, the initial thrill of the sweet taste has faded. Cavities are on the rise, and people are struggling to fit into their clothes. An incessant fear of type 2 diabetes looms. Long waits at hospitals and urgent care persist, and tempers are flaring once again. Blame games have started as people point fingers at one another for the sudden increase in weight and body fat percentages. The previously joyous atmosphere is now filled with health concerns. The roads are flooded with melted frosting and squashed cherries, leading to chaos. A slushy, raging river of vanilla icing flows alongside.
We pray the gods will halt their baking expedition. Evacuation orders have been issued. Tom has arranged for an inflatable boat. With great difficulty, we boarded it, carrying a small bag of essentials. The urgency and tension are palpable as we struggle to fit our rapidly expanding bodies into the limited space. Some folks remain trapped in their homes, unable to squeeze through the door. The vanilla icing slush levels are rising. They gaze up at the sky helplessly, mouthing prayers and curses simultaneously, waiting for more help to arrive. The inflatable boat navigates through the vanilla river slush, picking up as many people as possible, and eventually reaches its capacity. We don’t know our destination. Nobody knows when the cupcake storm will cease. But I know they won’t regret it if it does.