Last weekend there was an occasion that called for cake. I admit that I struggle with baking. Sure, I can bake cookies or cornbread, but cake is an altogether different beast. An ass-kicking, confidence busting, tasty beast.
I am very careful to follow directions when I bake, using precise measurements and temperatures. None of my usual approximates laziness, like substituting the liquid measuring cup for the dry measuring cup. Still, it’s like cake has something against me, refusing my every effort.
This time I’m hopeful as I pull the precisely timed layers from the oven. After they cool, it’s time to turn them out of the pans. That’s right, the make or break moment in the short but sweet life of cake.
But cake does not give up its grip on the pan, and so begins the delicate process of removal by force. Anyone who has ever dug stuck-on cake out of a pan knows it is not the preferred method. The result is a misshapen and sad, broken mess.
This is the place where you decide to either give, up or salvage your imperfect product. And you ask yourself, “Where did I go wrong?”
I think to myself, “I can keep this thing together, after all, I went to art school.” Sculpture wasn’t really my thing, but I’m confident I can model together something that is at least, cake-like.
And, so I begin. The frosting is the hero. It is the fluffy armor protecting the fragile, damaged layers on the inside.
It’s me. As cake.