Wedding cake

[kathminchin.livejournal.com]

The main problem with Aria’s wedding had been the cake as far I was concerned.



The reason for the rush had made me angry; so angry I couldn’t be angry enough and so I’d carefully stored that flame deep down, banked to make sure it would be burning brightly when I needed it. But still, it meant that Aria was going to marry the man she loved (well, one of them at least) and although I may have been slightly jealous and slightly wistful, I had decided long ago that Aria’s happiness trumped my wishful thinking.

Besides it was pointless pining after the girl of my dreams, when she was decidedly straight. And I now had two girlfriends and that was more than sufficient. Some might even say greedy.

Being a bridesmaid – I’d panicked slightly at the idea of getting a dress. However, Rosie’s request for help choosing hers had meant that I could ask Aria to find me one; knowing that whatever she found would be appropriate and look good. The resulting garment was red floating chiffon over satin and glittered with dainty gold details – exactly the kind of thing I’d never had thought of even trying on; plus relevant shoes and underwear. Aria, the shopaholic, as always had thought of everything.

So back to the cake I went. Cooking it was easy; I’d decided not to go for the rich fruit cake that needed feeding with brandy for a month before the day. Instead I made five tiers, each a different flavour, held together with a relevant ganache. Chocolate – always a good choice; plain vanilla sponge, one brightened with citrus flavours, and a fruit cake, topped off with a final one spiked with crystallised ginger; I made two of each just in case, tasting sessions held with whoever happened to be in the kitchen at the time, and spend the next day splattered with the filling mixtures as I whip them to light frothiness. I didn’t have time to put layers of royal icing on them, to harden to a rock and be able to take the weight of pillars to support the tiers, but fortunately the latest fashion for just piling one cake on top of each other made that bit simple.

Eavesdropping on the hotel arrangements I learn that the flowers will be red and white. I ponder the choices – I could of course get real flowers and stack them on the tiers. But I want to make something made with love, so instead I mix up batches of flower paste and hit the internet for instructions. My first attempts are clumsy and get squished up in a temper tantrum – why was I made with such big fingers and hooked claws? I find delicate work so frustrating and difficult; making elegant presentations of food so hard. I keep going and eventually get into the swing of it, managing to make rose petals that don’t look like thick blobs of playdoh, and white frills that get curled up into cherry blossom shapes. I paint the edges with blushes of pink and then make curled green leaves, transforming their matt finish to glossiness with cake varnish. The cakes are covered in red fondant, and I measure up white satin ribbons to tie round them, set them all on boards and the night before the big day I’m in the kitchen of the hotel in a corner; carefully assembling it all. The flowers have survived transit; and I place them in a cascade swirling down the tiers. I rejected the idea of a twee bride and groom on the top, instead I put a bunch of flowers tied with ribbons. The kitchen chef and cooks compliment my work; possibly because I brought the last remains of the test cakes and had given them to the staff in thanks for letting me borrow a workspace.

When I carefully carried the cake into the reception room, Aria was fussing over the last minute details.

“You can’t see the cake before the reception, it’s bad luck!” I joked.

She was too busy pretending to be a goldfish to respond. Made everything worth while.