Cake Wreck

Oh, my. I took that fancy-dancy cake decorating class, and then I thought to myself, "Yes! I can decorate cakes! Fanciful cakes! Dramatic cakes! Cakes that defy reason and gravity!"

Well.

I have some practicing to do. You see, I've been commissioned to create Libby's second-birthday cake, and Miss Libby should be extremely glad that today's experimental cake was not for her. (It was instead for Jan, Airan's mom, who is in town for a few days and who is very kind when it comes to extremely ugly belated-birthday cakes.)

I learned a few important lessons from this little exercise. 1) There's a reason you don't see many tall, narrow birthday cakes. 2) Firm, smooth buttercream frosting makes an excellent base layer before applying your fondant. Squishy, marshmallowy frosting -- not so much.

I strategically placed cupcakes around it to draw the eye away from the cracking, lumpy, buckling fondant, but there's only so much a few cupcakes can do. (Also, I want to mention that the twins helped me place the flowers on the cupcakes, which explains why they look like they were thrown on by a couple of three-year-olds. I'm not above blaming at least some of the decoration flaws on my children.)


Fondant disaster.


Much to my amazment, the cake did not collapse when sliced. So I guess it's more structurally sound than it looks.

This is what they mean by trial and error. Stress the error. But at least it tastes good! (Whenever I watch Ace of Cakes or those wacky cake-decorating contests on the Food Network, I always wonder what the cakes taste like. Sure, they're gorgeous, but who cares what they look like if they taste like cardboard??)

Future cakes will benefit from today's setbacks. But I'm frightened to find out how many more cake wrecks I'll have to make before I get good at this.

National Punctuation Day

To observe National Punctuation Day, let me remind you of the importance of the serial comma.

Happy Birthday Heather!

Happy birthday to our favorite supplier of costume wear.

Come Again?

Suddenly, from nowhere, Evie has a stutter. I started to notice it two days ago. Yesterday, it became more pronounced. Today, it could not be ignored. Simple phrases she's said a million times now take ages to spit out. Broken-record consonants come in an endless stream while she struggles to put words and sentences together. Luckily, Evie doesn't seem to notice or care; she just plugs away at those words until they finally come out right.

Her father has a much more sensible attitude about this than I do -- he rightly asserts that this is not cause for serious concern. But my heart breaks every time it takes her ten seconds to say "I" or "D-d-d-d-d-d-don't ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-chase me, tickle monster!" (said with much giggling, which doesn't help the stutter).

I've been reading up on this. I know how to react, which is to not react. I know how to model calm, slow, unhurried speech patterns for her, which gives me a chance to channel my inner Mr. Rogers. I know to give her my undivided attention when she speaks to me so she doesn't feel like she's fighting both my ears and her tongue. And I think I'm doing these things.

But I know full well that I haven't been a shining example up until now. It's taken this little episode to shine a light on the fact that I usually listen to the girls with half an ear, if that. I generally tear through words as quickly as I can spit them out -- time is precious, people! Let's not waste it with casual conversation. Until today, I've been doing a bang-up job of teaching the girls that speech is for quick communication -- get those words out as fast as you can and hope someone is listening. And good luck.

Those of you who are familiar with my parenting style won't be surprised to learn that this is yet another opportunity for me to feel a great deal of guilt about what a terrible mom I am, forcing my poor child to stutter just to get me to pay attention to her. And no, I don't really think I'm a terrible mom (room for improvement, sure, but not terrible). But I do think I've contributed to this sudden bout of stuttering.

I want to wallow in my remorse for a while, reflecting on my many parenting flaws and analyzing the many ways I could improve my communication skills. But now is the time for positive action. I'm going to be the best, calmest, least rushed speaker on the block. And I'm going to stop making such a big deal about this. If Evie doesn't care, why should I?

Yarrrr, Mateys

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

Mother Knows Best

My mom tells it like it is.

Generation to Generation

Rehearsals are underway for the Chicago Chamber Choir's fall concert series, Generation to Generation: Songs of the Jewish People. I'm very excited about the music for this concert, including Leonard Bernstein's Chichester Psalms. If you're in the Chicago area, put these dates on your calendar:

Saturday, November 15th, 7:30 pm
at the Music Institute of Chicago in Evanston

Sunday, November 16th, 3:00 pm
Chicago Sinai Congregation in Chicago

The Comment That Was Too Hot for Annie

Annie's trigger finger is quick on the "Delete Comment" button today! I don't want to start any blog warfare, but I do want to post the offending comment for all to see:

Come on, Annie! A reporter asks you what you expect from Sarah Palin, and instead of talking about issues you make predictions about her outfit?? I'm not trying to be snarky here when I say that this is exactly the problem with Sarah Palin and her many fans. I don't care what she's wearing! I do want to know whether she repeated her lie about the Bridge to Nowhere AGAIN.

Posted September 16, 2008 10:56 AM

Your cakes, let me decorate them.

I had a totally rockin' time at cake-decorating class this week. Does anyone need a cake for an upcoming wedding? Birthday? Christening? Bar mitzvah? If so, I've got you covered. (That is, if you want to be covered in fondant. Because I can do that. Oh, yes. I can.)

Below, find a series of photos from my cake-decorating adventures.

This is most of what I did on day one, which was much akin to working in a sweatshop. Behold, an unfinished carnation, lots of holly berries, and four rose bases.


My workspace. See all those specialized tools? I must buy them now. MUST.


Here's a two-layer carnation (with two layers of petals on, and a third yet to come) which I unfortunately dropped and smooshed a little bit. Shhh.


Cutting out carnation petals.


Carnation petals after they've been abused by the Dresden veining tool (one of the tools I must now possess).


Two one-layer carnations and one (smooshed) two-layer carnation.


My first rose in progress, with just one layer of petals.


Two one-layer roses.


Rose petals cut from gum paste, before they've been ruffled to make them more lifelike.


Placing ruffled petals around a rose base.


My first finished two-layer rose.


Here's my fondant-covered styrofoam cake form. I totally rock the rolled fondant. Aw, yeah.



Gum-paste flowers = easy. Gum-paste leaves = hard. And ugly. But they got prettier the next day, with help from green color dust and a high-gloss glaze.



My four roses, three with two layers and one with three layers. I'm quite pleased with them, if I do say so myself.


A whole mess of (ugly) leaves drying on foil.


Finishing the flowers with a touch of color.


I was skeptical about the ribbons, but they do add a really nice touch to the cake.


My completed flower bouquet. Seriously, would you even know they're not real? The answer is no. No, you wouldn't know.


And that's my finished cake. I bailed on a lot of the finishing ornamentation because I suuuuuuck at piping. Royal icing is not my friend. But I will practice, and with time, I will conquer. Royal icing, I'm not done with you.

Thanks for all of your wonderful birthday wishes. I had a great day. Special thanks to Heather for reminding me that my hair has always been bad -- it's not a recent phenomenon.

Happy Birthday to Me

Here we are, another 9/11. I'll be commemorating the seventh anniversary of the 9/11 attacks (oh, and the thirty-third anniversary of my birth) by attending Day 3 of Decorating for Beginners on Holiday and Special Event Cakes. Pictures and a recap to come. Anyone need a wedding cake? I have mad skillz with the gum-paste roses, friends.

Hypothetical

Let me paint a hypothetical scene for you. Let's imagine that, instead of Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton had been Obama's veep pick. In this scene we're creating, let's pretend that Chelsea Clinton is a tender 17 years old, rather than her actual 28. And in this bizzaro election world, say young Ms. Clinton is pregnant out of wedlock. Imagine, if you will, that the Clinton family has come together, along with the unborn child's father, and they've decided that the best decision is for the young couple to wed, raising their child together.

Let's imagine how the press might praise and defend the brave family in this delicate time.

Bill O'Reilly: "Teenage pregnancy is a personal matter. . . . Some Americans will judge [Hillary Clinton's] family. . . . For the sake of her and her family, we hope things calm down."

Rush Limbaugh: "I will explain why [Hillary Clinton could] accept the vice presidential nomination [with a pregnant 17-year-old daughter]. Because she's a classy lady, and she's a loving mother, and she doesn't want to saddle her 17-year-old daughter with the lifelong burden of the reason her mom didn't get to be vice president.

Kathryn Jean Lopez: "I teared up when [Hillary Clinton] talked about her beautiful daughter, who has to suffer seeing her most intimate mistake and challenge in the public eye."

OK, so my quotes are a teeny tiny bit altered. But still totally plausible, right? Right?

Fact Check

This is for all the Sarah Palin fans.

Also, here's a fantastic rebuttal to Palin's acceptance speech from the Obama campaign.

Why, oh why does the media let her get away with lying so much? Sarah Palin = big liar. Can we please call her on it for a change?

UPDATE: Another Palin fact-check, this time from the AP. Maybe the media is catching on after all.

The Things I Carry

Not too long ago, the twins and I were at the beach, which is where we've been spending much of our free time lately. I am desperate to wring every little bit of sun-shiny enjoyment I can out of the last weeks of summer, and the twins are 100% on board.

On the day in question, we were far back from the shore itself, sitting in a shady spot to dig in the sand and build fantastic structures. The sunny beach was burning hot, not really a good place to sit and play. Sophie, however, was bored with the shady sand and wanted to venture forth to the far-away water line and fill up her bucket with a bit of Lake Michigan.

When we're at the beach, I make sure everyone stays together. Either we all go to the water together or we all stay in our shady spot together. It's a big beach, and little girls don't get to venture forth on their own. So Sophie begged to go to the water, and Evie refused to abandon the shady sand pile. Frankly, I was with Evie on that one -- the sand was like molten lava on our bare feet. So I said, "No, Sophie, we're all going to stay here in the shade."

And then she said something she's never said before, but that I know I'm going to hear more and more as the girls get older: "Mom, can I go by myself?"

I could literally feel a stab of I-don't-know-what shoot through me. Independence? What is this? She actually wants me to let her wander off by herself?

I know I'm crazy overprotective of these kids. If I could, I'd carry them around always, do everything for them and shelter them from the dangerous world. I often find myself thinking back to my all-too-brief pregnancy, back when the girls really were with me all the time, and I could always keep them safe.

And that's when I start lying to myself. I love the idea of an idyllic pregnancy in which everything is happy, and mother and child(ren) are safe and content. But in my case, that's more fairy tale than fond remembrance.

I had a rough pregnancy, all six months of it. Never when I was pregnant did I reflect with bliss on the fact that I was protecting the girls, that they were always with me and I knew they were always safe. During the first trimester, I just didn't think of them in those terms. And later on, ultrasounds showed us that the girls weren't really as cozy and safe as they should have been (what with the broken bones in utero and the fact that my body was trying to reject them months before it should have). I was terrified for them during those weeks of hospital bedrest. While I knew that the earlier they were born, the harder their struggles would be, I also couldn't help but think that I wasn't doing them any good. They were crammed in my too-small, too-weak body, breaking bones and losing fluids. I thought they'd be better off on the outside, where they didn't have to rely on me for their well-being. Neonatologists were far better qualified to take care of them.

I'm sure this explains why I'm so obsessed with keeping them safe now -- at a time when it should have been easy for me to protect them, I couldn't get the job done. (How hard is it to just keep them in my belly? Billions of pregnant women do it!)

So my task is two-fold: 1) Recognize that I cannot keep them safe at all times, no matter how hard I try. 2) Recognize that trying to shelter them from every adversity is bad for their mental health -- and mine.

Back on the beach, I looked at proud, independent, anxious Sophie, who so longed to traverse the sand to the water's edge, and I thought, She'll be fine. "Go ahead, Sophie."

She got about five feet away before the scalding sand sent her running back. "It's too hot, " she said, and settled in at the shady sand pile, content.

Just Wanted to Mention

Grandma Barbara undergoes surgery today to remove a tumor from her jaw. We'll be thinking about Grandma Barbara and Grandpa Paul today, and we hope the surgery goes quickly and smoothly. May Grandma Barbara's recovery be swift.