Cake Wreck Round Two

I made a cake for the get together of the MFE gang last weekend. It was the first time we were hosting at our place, so I wanted everything to be perfect. I painstakingly stacked and iced a devil's food, double layer cake, but neglected to saw the layers flat because it had never really made a difference in the past. Also, the last time I attempted leveling a cake, I got cut. It's all just aesthetics anyway, right? So, I let it be.

The presentations were coming together nicely. My individual sized quiches were out of the oven and plated. All that was left was to hop in the shower and rinse the chocolate out of my hair and the onion juice off my skin. As Jon and I left the kitchen, I did a quick double take at the cake.

Me: "Does it look like the top layer is sliding off to you, babe?"
Jon: "Maybe, but it is probably just cooked a little lopsided. That's all."
Me: "Hmmm."

*We dash off to shower for the party*

This is what we found when we returned:







Not only had the top layer half slid off the bottom layer, it had come to rest against our white walls. Jon's advice: "Just leave it, we don't have time to do anything about it."

I very delicately slid the top layer back to center, but it almost immediately started sliding off again. It was turning into a true Sisyphus moment. I then have a stroke of genius.

Me to Brain: "How to wedding cake decorators get all those layers to stay put?"

Brain: "Umm...they actually take the time to level the layers."

Me: "Shut up brain, who asked you anyway?"

Brain: "Ummm, you just did genius"

Me: "Don't smart mouth me like that! What you were supposed to say was wooden stakes.

Brain: "Right..."

ME: "JON! Bring me some toothpicks, STAT!"

Jon proceeds to dash over with a box of toothpicks and we stab the top layer of the cake into submission. It actually worked. Then I had to wash the wall to get the brown icing off. We had just finished cleaning the wall and cake stand when we heard the first knock at the door. Everyone enjoyed the cake, oblivious to our shame.

Wordless Wednesday: Probably Getting a Little Too Addicted

Busted...

Weddings Make Women Lose Their Minds...

I recently had my first bridal shower, and let me just say, "It is official, I have lost my mind." I got the bright idea to let everyone else handle the food for the shower except the little mini fondant cakes I wanted to make. Well, naturally it turned out a huge mess that went down something like this:

T'was the Night before the shower and all through the kitchen
women were cursing, and screamin' and bitchin'!

Mom lost the fondant cookie cutters, and my bright idea to use cutters to make little round cakes didn't pan out. The cut-outs just crumbled into little pieces everywhere. My aunts, who were hosting the shower, were ready to give up and buy store bought cakes. I could not bring myself to give up though, so I made a plea to start over making cupcakes instead. We tossed out the two, crumbled cake-messes that we had attempted to turn into something cute and respectable, and dashed off to the store for cupcake holder thingys. Well, my mom did because she was so upset about losing the fondant cutters that she needed to clear her head.

I, on the other hand, set about to rolling and cutting out fondant circles in preparation for later. So, after a few more hours of baking, we had some cute, little fondant-covered cupcakes. Mom went out and bought more little cutters, but we failed to get pictures with all the cute designs because we had 40 cupcakes to go. So basically you see the base coat here:

I somehow managed to get fondant all over my feet. Don't ask me how.

Because I was sucha horse's ass about having these things meticulously perfect, my lovely aunts went about other pressing duties...

Aunt Loyce, finger sandwich extraordinaire! (and Official Butt Swatter. Apparently I tried to help too much.)

Acting as sous chef, housekeeping, and family matriarch was Aunt Pat.

Official title: Watermelon Fruit Bowl Maker

Between the four of us arguing for an hour, we finally decided on my Grandmother's buffet as the official tea holding location. (The theme was a tea party.)

Me and Mum share a spot of tea.

Then the party started, it was craziness. The cupcakes and sandwiches were hoowarfed down in no time because 31 of the 37 people invited showed up. Let me just say that this was NOT AT ALL EXPECTED because:

a.) I'm a horse's ass and a bad friend. So naturally, I didn't expect that many people to come. What a surprise this was:

That's not all of it either, there are packages behind me as well.

I also had an incredible game planner. She took tired, old shower games and breathed new life into them. They were hilarious and fun for all!

Glee fanatic, Gingerific gal-pal Samantha (Matron of Honor Extraordinaire!)

Here is a picture of one of her games, where people had to memorize what was on my apron and try to remember when I left the room. The person who remembered the most wins. Knowing that I love to cook, she made everything cooking related, and bird-themed, like the wedding. Truly awesome!

Fabulous!

There was the inevitable opening of gifts, in which I tried hard to make it interesting so people didn't get bored out of their minds. There was the bow incident...

A near disaster with Jon's mother grew concerned when I mentioned that he and I had to argue about registering for some towels. I had said that I knew standard towels wouldn't fit around him because he is such a big guy.  Side Note:  He wanted to register for one towel for each of us, and ones that were so small that it wouldn't go around him. I insisted on "bath sheets" and added a few more to the registry behind his back. Seeing Jon's mother's uneasiness my mom calls out, "How do you know a regular towel won't fit around him..."

 Thanks Mom for calling me out. (Sam saved the day: "Ummm, hello! THE POOL!")

I was totally embarrassed and tried to hide in said bath sheet.

 So other than that, all went well. When the boys started sneaking around for a sandwich, they found all the food gone and had to fend for themselves. I got a kitchen full or neato gadgets that I am itching to try out. I am thinking up my next challenge as I type...something involving using every new gadget I just got and chronicling its use here. Whew what a day! I couldn't have imagined a more perfect shower. It was beautiful, I felt beautiful. I felt so loved by all the special women in my life.

Third Attempt: Why fat and processed flour matter

During the third attempt, I had ditched my last recipe and written down one I had located elsewhere on the Internet. Much to my frustration, Jon's mother was not too helpful with advice. It was like she was hiding the family recipe from me so her boy would dump me. "Oh dear," she chortled, "you don't make kolaches off of recipes. You have to learn in person." Oh screw it.

At this time, I was in the middle of health food kick. All organic, hormone-free, cage-free goodness was only what was good for me. I had on hand some whole wheat flour full of fibery goodness. Low fat milk and margarine to boot. What could possibly go wrong! I would just lose a bunch of calories and add to the overall health of the beloved treat.

Ummm yea right.

So I gruel over stiff batter beaten by hand with a wooden spoon. I lovingly pour my $10 bag of organic wheat flour into my low fat, scalded, organic (read $5 a gallon) milk. Then, I mix in the tub of margarine as a substitute for the 300 sticks of butter the recipes seem to require.

At this time, Jon steps in and says "smells good in here". Turns out, the dough was actually starting to smell like it was supposed to. I do a mini-victory dance, known in this household as the "smarty-pants dance".

I get all proud and teary-eyed over my whole wheat, kolache-smell-alike dough and begin to cut it into the "walnut size" balls every recipe calls for. Now, to let them rise for the 14th time... I wait.

I wait some more....

I turn on all the lights in the kitchen to warm it up.....

I turn on the stove to heat it up some more....

*Tragedy strikes*

The balls kind of spread out instead of fluffing up.

At this point, the dough balls had been "rising" for hours. I finally said, "The hell with it!" and popped them in the oven.

Well, turns out that butter fat and processed flour has a place in pastry baking. At least in kolache recipes.

These kolaches were gooey (again) and tasted like stale, wheat bread that has been sitting in your grandmother's pantry since WWII. All four dozen kolaches in this batch were AWFUL.

So, I did what every corn-fed American white-girl does when they have food they need to get out of their house in a hurry: I took them to the office. ALL my baking disasters have been pawned off on my co-workers.


People in office settings will eat anything as long as it does not try to pass as healthy. It must have something to do with cubicles, florescent lighting, and corporate servitude.

Usually, things are snatched up in minutes. Not today. I had to spend hours guilt-tripping people to eating the kolaches I brought. I took my pans home later that day, hanging my head in shame.

I cried and boo hoo-ed like a small child when I got home. I think I seriously weeped into my flour pail. Jon came home to find me curled up on the kitchen floor.

"You'll never marry me," I waled at him.

He sits down next to me and tries to be comforting: "Don't worry babe, most of the people except my grandma can not make kolaches too well. You have to be like... a grandma to do it right."

At the rate I am going, I just might die an old maid before I get this right.