Hey, America. You left me and my cake for dead in the eighties, discarded with shoulder pads and brie. But then, just when I had given up hope for any existence beyond the backwater Christmas buffet tables of Southern Living readers, a miracle happened. Sex and the City made cupcakes cool, and I was back in business. The irony that my resurrection happened at a pair of lips over which cream cheese frosting has never passed is not lost on me, but who cares about irony when I’m the hottest thing going at cupcake “boutiques” in malls across the land. Suck it, Mrs. Fields.
My dirty little secret is that I’m the original culinary fraudster. I was on the scene before mutton even thought of dressing up as lamb. My real name is FD&C Red No. 40, but like a new arrival in Hollywood, it didn’t take long for me to drop that in favor of Red Velvet, a moniker that’s proven irresistible to legions of middle-class ladies. Putting a few drops of me into any recipe is like liquid magic. Whether you want to upstage the bride at her own shower or just need to stuff your feelings after a shitty day at work, a dozen Red Velvet cupcakes is the answer. I am luxury incarnate, and for $4.50 a pop, you too can be luxurious. I’ll make you like Dita Von Teese, only fat.
But enough about cupcakes. These days I’m used to glam up every baked good imaginable, from cookies to cheesecake to pumpernickel toast. There’s even a goddamned billboard in Vegas touting my presence in pancakes as a reason to stay at a particular hotel. I’m the Cirque du Soleil of foodstuffs. Could I get any bigger?
Well, yes, actually. You’ve created a monster, SJP, and now my ambition knows no bounds. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing my tasteless blood hue can’t improve. My tenure in Vegas has made me acutely aware that America has a weight problem, and it’s that time in my career when I need to appear to be giving back to head off an anti-indulgence backlash. Red Velvet quinoa has a nice ring to it. Kale chips could certainly use a makeover, and I can’t think of a better man for the job.
Once I’ve secured Gwyneth’s goop endorsement, I’ve got my eyes on the top-of-the-food-chain prize: protein. Tofu is a no-brainer, but I’m pretty sure I could even suffuse life into the antibiotic-riddled meat that passes for beef in America today. Who wants a Kobe steak when you can have a Red Velvet one? With a nice glass of Red Velvet Cabernet, of course.