Just Icing on the Cake, Part One, by Roberta McReynolds

In the We Couldn't Resist Category: Just Icing on the Cake, Part One, by Roberta McReynolds

We watched her squeeze out a thick bead of icing around the top edge of the bottom layer and fill the center with fruit filling. The icing keeps the filling from oozing out between the layers. This was something of a light bulb moment for me. I began to fantasize delighting friends with surprise fillings tucked inside in breathtaking creations.

Class was dismissed early for a special discount shopping trip in the store so we could purchase all the helpful items to enable us to be successful bakers; everything that wasn’t packaged in the Beginner’s Kit. Well, there was no question about the practicality of using a single 3-inch deep cake pan rather than two 1-1/2-inch pans. Obviously there’s less waste cutting off only one raised top instead of two. The special adjustable cutter with the wire would guarantee level tortes. I needed one of those. (Note to future self; it won’t work on an uneven, tile surface with grout.)

I added the special (expensive) shortening with trans-fat, piping gel, meringue powder, colorings, a frosting spatula, and a decorating turntable to the growing pile of items I convinced myself were necessary. Then I impulsively added a cleverly designed cake-saver and a cupcake-saver. Did you know there are insulated bands to wrap around the outside of the cake pan to slow the cooking of the outer edge of the cake while the center bakes? The even temperature while in the oven reduces the size of the raised center on top that eventually gets sliced off. Naturally, the nifty 3-inch deep pan requires two wraps to accommodate the depth.

When I got home and unloaded the trunk of the car, I informed my husband that when he tasted the first slice of my cake, he should remember to say, "Wow, Honey, this cake tastes like a million bucks." He wouldn’t be far off the truth!

I decided to select a French Vanilla cake mix (approved brand, of course) over the 4-5 varieties of chocolate my heart longed to taste. The light-colored crumbs would be easier to camouflage with white butter-cream frosting (without the butter).

I had the project all mapped out in my head. I would bake the required cake and six cupcakes and apply icing the next morning so I could relax the rest of the afternoon before class. I’d watched the instructor pull it off in much less time, especially when you account for the lecture and shopping spree portions of the evening.

Despite using the exact brand of mix, cake pan, insulated wraps and wax paper on the bottom of the lightly greased pan, my cake was reluctant to separate from the pan. When it finally plopped out, it left random French Vanilla chunks firmly attached to the aluminum sides. "No problem," I said in my mental pep talk, "I’ll just glue the larger pieces in place with frosting and fill in the smaller holes. So what if it’s a bit thicker in some areas?"

I allowed the cake to cool and readied myself for the process of turning my cake into two even layers. It seemed that the cake didn’t understand its role. The pieces falling off the sides of the cake as I attempted to side the wire through reminded me of icebergs calving off glaciers.

Next I gently slid my fingers between the layers to slip a circle of cardboard between them for support. The top layer (or was it the bottom?) flexed and cracked. That’s when I began to think of butter-cream frosting in terms of building spackle and chalking.

Lori had recommended wrapping the cake in plastic wrap and freezing it to make it easier to handle while stacking and icing. Maybe I was supposed to do that before cutting, but it was too late now. I ripped off a section of plastic wrap long enough to encase a side of beef; seconds later it was a hopeless tangle of twisted rope.

This might be the time to interject that I was approximately 14 hours into a migraine headache by the time I was coiling plastic ropes around two crumbling layers. I ended up with something that looked vaguely like an Egyptian mummy, only more gruesome.

The following morning my time management scheme began to crumble, just like my cake, as soon as I realized my large electric mixer was buried in a garage storage cabinet blocked by layers of window screens. Mixing several small batches of frosting with a handheld mixer seemed the easier route than fighting my way through the temporary obstacle generated by the house painter.

All I was required to do was coat the cake in a smooth blanket of icing. The special spatula was not the magic wand I had observed in Lori’s hands. I patched, spun the cake around on the turntable until I was dizzy and still had a cake whose silhouette resembled my own. Lumps and bulges refused to submit to all tactics to transform them into smooth, sleek lines.

The voice in my head (which strangely enough, sounded a lot like my husband’s) whispered, "You’re obsessing." The one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t allow to take over is that persistent longing for perfectionism. This was supposed to be fun!

The printed instructions Lori had provided contained the statement, "If you have any questions, please call." Only one question came to mind: remind me … why is it exactly that I’m doing this? Did I mention that my dear husband, Mike, prefers to eat pie, rather than cake? He also scrapes the frosting off his dessert before eating it.

I phoned my best friend once the cloud of powdered sugar settled and I had conceded I needed to quit and accept a measure of defeat.

"If I never properly thanked you for all the beautifully decorated birthday cakes you made for my son 30-something years ago, I’m humbly thanking you now!"

All I heard on the line for the next half-minute or so was unsympathetic laughter.

It briefly crossed my mind that while driving to class that night I could slam on the brakes as I turned into the parking lot, causing my lumpy cake to launch itself against the side of the cake-saver. Then in a pastry chef’s version of, 'The dog ate my homework,' I’d explain how a dog had darted across the road right in front of my car. I’d reveal a cake with accordion folds and blink back a solitary tear. Since high drama didn’t really seem like the right approach and I’m still waiting for my first Academy Award nomination, I ceased rehearsing the scene in my head.

Lori’s mission that night was to teach us how to use several different frosting tips with triangles of parchment paper rolled into cones to hold the frosting. What can I say? Some of us caught on much quicker than others.

We switched tips, practiced making consistent swirls, stars and shells at a feverish pace. Our practice boards received layers of icing only to be scraped back into a bowl and applied again, eventually graduating to decorating our cakes. Somehow I ended up with green food coloring past both elbows, but not a molecule contacted my apron. The strangest part was that I wasn’t even working with that color.

"You okay over there?" asked my table partner, Cathy.

"Huh?" I blinked as I pulled myself back into focus. I realized I hadn’t moved in several minutes. My pastry bag was poised at the proper 45-degree angle for making a shell border, but the tip and my cake were nowhere near each other. The fingers of my right hand were cramped around the parchment bag that I had proudly shaped into a perfect cone at the beginning of class. It was now twisted and gnarled. Pink frosting had oozed between my fingers and was now drying into a crusty mess.

When I say ‘pink,’ I am implying a shade somewhere between Pepto-Bismol and neon pink. I may as well confess, while I’m at it, that I was aiming for a light, delicate blush of color.

Even with all that extra white frosting I made, I couldn’t tone it down. So I adopted the ‘I meant to do that’ attitude. We had another 30 minutes to go before being dismissed. I looked over at Cathy and sighed, "I’m all frosted out. I don’t have another shell or star left in me."

Lori’s announced that the assignment for the third and final week would be to bring another frosted cake so we could learn how to make a daisy, leaf, and the elaborate looking rose. She then demonstrated how to make roses and told us to practice at home. It would take a stopwatch to time how quickly that woman could turn out a perfect rose. We asked her to repeat the steps over and again, since she didn’t seem able to work slower than a race horse.

Even as overloaded with techniques as I felt, a glowing ember of hope smoldered within me. If I couldn’t make a perfect-looking smooth surface on my cake, at least I could dazzle everyone with perfect flowers to hide the imperfections. I can do that!

Editor's Note: Part Two will follow soon.

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In the We Couldn't Resist Category: Just Icing on the Cake, Part One, by Roberta McReynolds

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