You can just call me Cupcake

Back by popular demand… a little humor. After a day like today, my choice is either humor or the most depressing blog you've ever read.

First, let me start by saying that I never had a little brother, but I think that I would have very much liked it. There is nothing wrong with my little sister. At age 5, I really didn't want her to be born. So considering, I would say that our relationship has really improved! But I still think a little brother would have been a lot of fun—at least in the Malian style.

Since coming to Mali, I have a variety of people that I refer to as "little brother." This is mostly a joke, since here in Mali, the older brother exerts almost god-like authority over the younger. To be honest, that has been one of the things that I've had to "get over" culturally. I found that it would drive me crazy to see an older brother order his younger brother around, but it seems the younger brother minds far less than I do. I was ready to become a champion of the rights of little brothers (being one myself), but they seemed not to mind, and it soon became apparent that these were my issues, not theirs.

But there is really only one person that I consider a real little brother. Joel is my friend Paul's little brother. Apparently, one of the benefits of friendship here in Mali is that you inherit little brothers. Before I even knew his name or really who he was, Joel was doing things for me. I can remember running into him after church one afternoon and him calling me "big brother." I was a bit confused and taken aback because I couldn't even really remember where I knew him from. Since then, our friendship has grown. He still always takes a subservient role—washing my moto, insisting on carrying things for me, making tea for me, referring to me only by the name "big brother"—but we can now have a real conversation and I enjoy inviting him over and just having him around.

One of the things that I have learned in observing Paul and Joel is that the Malian system takes care of its own. (Definitely open to abuse, but when done well, it is very interesting) Joel will unquestioningly obey Paul's orders, but the side that doesn't jump right out, is that Paul thinks quite a bit about Joel's needs. Paul has a job and Joel is a student, so there is a flow of money to cover Joel's needs. There is a protectiveness and a watchfulness over the younger sibling. And most touchingly, when things get serious, it is the little brother that Paul wants at his side.

So, sharing some of these same big-brother feelings, when Joel came to ask me a favor concerning his graduation, I was all ears. He wanted a cake to share with the people that he had invited to his graduation ceremony. I immediately agreed, knowing that I'm probably the only person with an oven that he could ask. And I would have been happy to make three cakes for him, if I had to. Let me just say at this point, though, that I can make a cake, even from scratch, without problem and have done so multiple times because of necessity; however, I'm not sure I want to be known as the cake-man.

Then, as we talked more, the details became a little more clear and I realized that I would need to make enough cake for 20 people and serve it at the school. This was getting more complicated, but I was struck by a wave of genius and realized that my answer was cupcakes.

Now, I'm not generally one to make distinctions between feminine and masculine work (I am, after all, a nurse), but the idea of cupcake-making just struck me as funny and slightly wrong for me. I knew that without a doubt it was the best idea for this particular situation, and it is not even like I consider baking to be below me. I've baked several things, and proudly so, but in the sense of it making me feel like I'm something of a Renaissance man. Cupcakes, I think, just can't do anything for that image. They feel like a trespass into regions that are best left alone.

But eager to help Joel out, I figured I would just do this and keep it quiet. And that would have been a fine plan, if catastrophe wasn't the order of the day.

As I was preparing, I realized that I didn't have enough paper-lining thingies. This raised big questions about whether I could just cook them directly in the pan. This necessitated talking to the ladies who work here, who were very kind in giving advice and not judgment. Though at one moment, in order to make myself feel better, I clarified that I was asking these questions because I had never made cupcakes before, and that that boded well for my masculinity. (I don't think they bought it…)

After devising my plan, I was about to start baking, when I got a call from the hospital. The story of today's hospital happenings is much too complicated to get into now, but suffice it to say, it goes down in the annals of all-time bad days. So afterwards, I came home to bake, but first sent Saskia (the Dutch physician) a text telling her that I was praying for peace for all of us. She texted back that she wanted to chat and wondered if she could come over. Knowing that I'd be in the middle of cupcake-land, I was a bit hesitant to say yes, but agreed.

She arrived right as I was in the middle of mixing the first batch. She sat on a chair in the kitchen doorway and we talked about the whole mess of the day. And there I was, heating the oven to 350, mixing, and sliding little paper-liners in to the muffin pan (I found some!). It felt apron worthy. And the fact that I was baking and giving comfort at the same time made me start to feel like I should be some, large Southern woman baking cookies for her heartbroken friend. (Or wait, was that God in the Shack?)

While the first batch was cooking, I made the frosting, which Saskia told me she thought looked disgusting. (Hope the Malians like it better… ) Pulling the cupcakes out of the oven, I realized that I was out of gas. So after telling Saskia goodnight and seeing her out the door, I went to change the gas bottle, only to find out that my spare was empty. Since I need to have these bad-boys ready by tomorrow morning, (and the refill station is now closed) I was a bit worried. But since it was still early enough, I thought I'd head over to the guest house to find a spare gas bottle.

Arriving on the compound, I found Sharon, a visiting nurse, coming down the guesthouse stairs. In my overzealous, large Southern women mode, I told her that I had a "Cupcake emergency." (yeah I know…hopeless. There is no recovery from this.) So together we searched the guest house, but didn't find a bottle of the right size, so we decided that I could just cook the last set here.

So I went home, gathered all the pans, the batter, the little paper-liners, and spoons and started walking out the door. My guard was a little puzzled as to why, at ten o'clock pm, I was marching out my gate with an arm full of pans and a bowl of batter. But really, how do you explain to a Malian man, who has probably never cooked a day in his life, that what seems like a bizarre set of actions is a very important mission? (Operation Cupcake) So instead of saying anything, I just grunted as I walked past, hoping that improved my image.

A few short steps later, in the middle of the street (with only the mercy of darkness to hide me) I dropped everything in my hands, saving the bowl and my computer. But undeterred, I pressed on. And here I sit, writing this incredibly lame story, while my cupcakes cool—by the smell of them, they'll be tasty.

And I'm not worried any more that people know I'm making cupcakes, even if that just can't help my image. Because, it isn't about cupcakes; it is about loyalty. It is about learning to be a good big brother. It is about looking after a little brother and helping him with something that will honor him on his big day. It is about hashing out the crappiest days with your team. It is about sticking together when the going gets rough.

And gosh darn it, cupcakes help.