Into the Eye of the Cupcake

What happened on Saturday illustrates, at least to me, the quintessential manifestation of God's rationale for creating Saturdays -- besides, you know, resting or making man or guiding the evolutionary ooze or whatever else your beliefs may say about the creation story. For me this Saturday was one of those perfect storm days in which nothing in particular happened in the most spectacular of ways. Heading into the weekend there was just enough on my schedule not to feel completely lame and yet not so much that I would still be looking forward to plenty of time to lay about reading back-issues of magazines I'd fallen behind on in my sweats while mindlessly eating brie and grapes (little peak into my life there, yikes).

On Saturday morning I ran the usual errands and hit the gym, but early in the afternoon Dan and I were sitting around the living room with not even the slightest idea what to do with ourselves. Some friends were giving us a low-key engagement party later that night, but with 7 hours to kill until then and most of our respective "stuff" already taken care of, we just lazed on the couch watching Phantom Gourmet. On this particular day, as though the show could read my pms-ing mind, the feature was "junk food junkies" with highlights of all the city's best forbidden treats and comfort foods.

That's when it happened. The Phantom featured a just-opened place in the North End (aka "Little Italy") called Trani (unfortuante name, no?) which -- wait. for. it -- makes cupcakes filled with ice cream and covered in fudge. PEOPLE?! Listen to the words I am saying to you: cupcakes -- filled with ice cream -- covered in fudge sauce. For a brief moment time stopped then Dan and I looked at each other and it was like an old scene out of Pinky and the Brain: "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?", "I think so, but where are we going to find cupackes filled with ice cream at this time the day?!", "I'll tell you where at freaking Trani in the North End. ". And before you could say "cupcake filled with ice cream covered in fudge sauce", we were in our winter warmest and out the door in single-digit temperatures to hop the next red-line subway car straight to littly Italy.

No novice junk-food eaters here, we knew better than to go straight for the sugar on an empty stomach. So the first stop was Ernesto's for one of the best slices of pizza around (although truly the best slice anywhere can be found at Upper Crust, but that is neither here nor there or in the North End). At two bucks a slice suddenly those shoes I shouldn't have spent so much money on earlier in the week weren't hurting quite so bad.

Then just down Salem Street we ventured until the Trani sign loomed, beckoning us hither (or is it thither). And, lo, once inside its formidable walls verily we did feast upon this:

And it was gooooood. It was so unbelievably, heart-achingly good. And they were TWO for $2.50! If you do nothing else in this life, should all your other hopes or dreams vanish or whether you reach the highest of heights, do not miss an opportunity to nosh upon an ooey-gooey chocolate cupcake infused with vanilla ice cream then sent on a conveyer belt under a streaming sheet of hot chocolate sauce.

With wallets nary the lighter, we headed home fully satiated and vowing to spread the Trani gospel. As if that weren't enough (because, ohh, it was), we had a wonderful night with our gracious friends at a mini-engagement party in our honor and then over to The Burren to rock out with everyone's favorite local cover-band, The Swinging Johnsons.

Yes indeed, Saturday was one of those unexpected days swirled generously with spontaneity and gluttony and topped off with a dollop of beer and air-guitar ... then covered in fudge. And on the seventh day, Christina rested.