I feel like this cupcake. All dressed up, eager to step out, only to be closed up and placed on the shelf in the back of the restaurant where I await my debut. Then the dinner service starts and I am moved to the dessert station of the kitchen. From there I’m bounced to the rack where the garlic and onion odors seep into my box and I begin to lose my sweetness. Finally I’m moved to the walk-in refrigerator where I take up residence alongside the slabs of aged beef. If that were not humiliation enough, the sous chef, in his urgency to get at the meat, bumps me and I topple to the ground. He picks me up, opens me up, and discovers me upside down with my face in the frosting. And my eggs? They rolled out of the box, onto the floor, and down the drain. There went my grandchildren.