Cake wrecks

If you haven’t perused, go now and then come back here. I’ll wait.

So I started a class this week – the Wilton method cake decorating class at my local Craft Shop. I’ve always been sort of fascinated by pretty cakes and I think in another lifetime I would be a Professional Cake Person. The class is two nights per week for four weeks and we will learn how to make buttercream icing in various consistencies, ice and decorate cakes with such baubles as the Wilton Rose and borders, and we will learn a bunch of neat tips like how to smooth your buttercream all professional-like.

Sounds great right? Sugar, cake, chatty womenfriends with whom I might learn alongside among giggles and buttercream triumph!

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

I needed a drink after the first class.

When I walked in, cheerfully, because, hey, IT’S CAKE, and said, “I’m here for the cake decorating!” I was met with what can only be described as *crickets chirping.* Repeat this response for the next two hours.

Now, I have a pathological need to try to Lighten the Mood. If you look like you might be uncomfortable or like you might cry, or if you don’t have any friends in class, or I just saw you got your feelings hurt, I’m going to start blurting out goofy stories to make you feel better. I’m a smart ass, too.

This first night of class, all my charm and levity crashed on that stone wall of sullen hostility like a wave against a cliff. Nary a chip in their stern facades could I make!

The teacher is a nice lady, but her delivery could have been improved. The first night she makes it sound like you have just signed up for a graduate-level physics class that will remain on your Permanent Record.

Have I mentioned IT’S CAKE?

One of the participants spent the whole class with arms tightly folded across her chest. She asked a lot of hostile-sounding questions followed by a teenagerish huff. Her defensiveness came to a head when she accused the teacher of being frustrated with her for asking questions. Can I melt Huffy McCakerson’s crusty fondant coating with self-effacing humor or will I simply piss her off more?

Huffy’s neighbor looks about 12 years old and made not one peep all evening. Based on her attitude and facial expression, I got the feeling that her mom was forcing her to take the class, but I believe she only *looks* 12. In reality I think she’s 37. Will Tiny Baker come out of her shell?

The third in our little baking bevy is a middle-aged British woman who is the best of the bunch. She hates sugar but has three daughters for whom she wishes to make beautiful princessy treats for and who, when I cheekily accused her of wanting to be in cake class to be away from them, replied, “Now you’re catching on.” Will Queen of the Cake Princesses be my ally?

The group is rounded out – literally – by a darling Indian woman sporting a darling baby bump. She seems shy but sweet. The teacher couldn’t fathom why the woman didn’t know what Crisco was. (Uh…do they have Crisco in India?) I can see translation problems ahead – the teacher has a thick country accent and Bun in the Oven has a thick Indian accent. I can see calamity ensuing. Will the Bun-Baker bring it?

And of course, there’s me, resident observer and home bakist extrordinaire. Stay tuned for more tales of the Cake Wrecks.


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