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Page Three

The queen of the house gave my once recognizable pastry rose a couple tentative sniffs, and then backed away to a safe distance to sit and contemplate the spectacle. Golden eyes gazed steadily at me, perplexed over the condition of the kitchen and the overwhelming essence of butter cream and vanilla hanging in the air. I’m convinced the telepathic message directed at me (loosely translated from a critical feline voice) reflected, "Have you got any idea how close that came to landing in the middle of my royal food dish?"

The opinionated tabby turned and deliberately flipped the end of her tail at me (no translation necessary) and marched off toward the bedroom in total disgust. I considered giving up and following her; nothing sounded better than a nap in a darkened, quiet room.

I didn’t surrender to the lure of soft pillows. I endured another three roses plunging to the floor before I ran low on yellow icing, time, and any remaining interest in practicing roses. The thought of sitting on a hard chair through a three-hour class for the purpose of making additional roses was more than I could stomach. I decided I’d finish decorating my cake at home, deliver it to my instructor and apologize for not staying that night. It was now a contest between the cake, the migraine and the clock.

The three best roses were selected and gingerly placed on top of the tiered cake. The remaining roses cascaded over the edge onto the bottom layer and down one side. I quickly added green food coloring and some piping gel into the batch of white soft-consistency icing. The mixture was scooped into a fresh parchment bag with a writing tip to make stems and curlicues around the roses. I also decided to accent the white shell borders with tiny green polka dots between each shell while I was in embellishment mode.

As I was swapping out the writing tip for a leaf tip, I heard the now familiar sound of a rose-sized glob of frosting falling onto something besides a cake. One of the roses placed on the side of the cake had tried to make an escape. It landed on the turntable upside-down, of course. When I turned it over I was astonished to discover that it had set up enough to retain nearly all its original shape. I realized the probability of getting it to adhere a second time was slim, so I rammed a toothpick through the center and into the cake. Then I straightened out the bent petals. Actually, it turned out looking almost a good as before, which may offer some idea of how poor my work was at this point.

Green leaves sprouted next to the roses, hiding imperfections in the process. That left one last tip the instructor had on her class agenda. I went for the finish line and created a sprinkling of daisies into the bouquet and stood back to survey the affect. I was satisfied. The cake was complete and pretty enough for a photograph before placing it into the cake saver and leaving for class.

Cautiously joining rush-hour traffic, I drove with my precious cargo braced in the trunk between rolled up bath towels. I gently coasted up to stop signs and held my breath turning through intersections. When I opened the trunk of the car upon arrival, the cake saver hadn’t noticeably shifted from its nest. I lifted it out and carried it like a newborn baby, not daring to even trust the handle on top of the lid.

I placed the cake in the center of a table and went up to Lori, explaining I had a migraine and wouldn’t be staying for class. The cake was there for her to evaluate (but I didn’t convey that decorating it was the trigger for the throbbing in my skull). The instructor stepped over to the table and I carefully released the clasps of the cake saver and lifted the top in what I hoped to be a grand voila moment. I looked at Lori’s face for signs that she was profoundly impressed and followed her gaze to my masterpiece.

I hadn’t accounted for the height of my tiered cake versus the capacity of the cake saver. Oh, the cake fit well enough, but those three perfect roses on top had flattened into hockey pucks.

Lori was understanding and presented me a signed certificate declaring I had completed the class, along with a coupon for a small gift when I signed up for the next lessons. (Not going to happen anytime soon.) She said she hoped I felt better soon as I shuffled out across the parking lot carrying the cake saver by the handle.

That evening my husband and I each had a slice of cake. He predictably scraped his frosting off to discard later. I made sure I had roses on my slice (remembering which rose was impaled on a toothpick), because I believe in eating what bugs you.

I’ve made two cakes and three batches of cupcakes since that experience. I admit to using whatever cake mix was on sale and canned frosting applied with a butter knife. If I feel adventuresome, I shake sprinkles out of a jar for decoration.

Please … don’t tell Lori. I’m not worried about my own reputation; I just don’t want her to feel like a failure.

Return to Page One, Page Two<<

*Just the Icing on the Cake, Part One

©2009 Roberta McReynolds for SeniorWomenWeb

 

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