It is no secret within my immediate circle that I cannot bake. One might even go so far as to say that I am a laughing stock amongst my friends. This is not some sort of sickly pseudo-modesty; I truly am spectacularly bad at it. I fail at packet mixes. I fail with recipes. My cake-making endeavours tend to mimic the classic narrative arc of Greco-Roman tragedy and strewn behind me lay waste the innumerable corpses of cakes past.
They stick, they burn, they break, they explode, they implode, they melt and once the icing is on they somehow manage to maintain the look and texture of a small cross-section of gastrointestinal mucosal lining, and possibly the taste, too.
They tend to look like this.
Or this tasty looking little gem which features icing I accidentally made from baking soda.
Or this, the infamous “earwax cake”.
We have two very big milestone birthdays coming up in my family. My younger son has his first birthday and a week later my husband has his 40th birthday.
I have decided to bake them both cakes. Fancy cakes. Impossible cakes. Cakes that are meant to resemble things like fairy tale vignettes, mythological animals or licensed cartoon characters. Cakes that resemble anything but the inner lining of the lower bowel or the waste products it generates.
Given that I have zero interest in this project outside of familial obligation and/or the desire to impress my peers I have delegated the responsibility for all creative decision-making to my three year-old son. He may well insist on a cake that looks like a dinosaur. Or a fire engine. Or a poo. Stuff that pre-school age boys get excited about.
So this is my challenge: Bake and decorate a cake that does not look like ass.
Unless, of course, my three year old decides he wants me to bake a cake that looks like ass.
Follow up posts:
Here is the creative brief I was given by my three year old.
Here is the cake reveal for the birthday cake challenge.
Here is the infamous, world-first Chicken Schnitzel Birthday Cake!